The Dead Girl: Greg Owen Mystery #1
Page 17
I step up to the front door.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
I can just hear them inside.
Mom: “Can you get that?”
Henry: “I’m right in the middle of something!”
“I’m going to burn dinner!”
“I’m trying to find a job!”
And then somebody relents, because I can hear footsteps, then a shape fills the sidelite.
The door opens.
Mrs. Lucetti is short and has big thick glasses. Dark hair that does not look a natural color, and olive skin that needs very little sun to be tanned.
She looks me up and down.
“Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Lucetti, my name is Greg Owen. I need to speak to your son.”
“Why?”
“He offered to help with my investigation.” I can say that because it’s true and look like I mean it. “And I need his help.”
“Who is that?” Henry calls from somewhere in the house.
“A man named Greg Owen is here to see you,” she says.
There’s a moment where Mrs. Lucetti is turning her head from me, back into the house to look at her son, then back to me. Whoever speaks first, loses.
I keep my mouth shut.
Henry breaks the silence. “Tell him I’ll be right down. We can talk in the living room.”
“Did you hear him?” she asks.
“I did.”
“Okay.” She still doesn’t look too happy about inviting me in. Who can blame her? I look like hell. “Please come in. Can I get you anything?”
“No thank you.”
She shows me to the living room. I listen for sounds of a third party in the house, but there are none. My little bit of snooping on Henry revealed he’s an only child and that his father isn’t around. I’m reasonably certain it’s just the two of them.
I can hear Henry moving around upstairs. Quickly, I backtrack into the foyer and open the coat closet by the front door quietly. It’s a mess of jackets and scarves and gloves. I shift the garments aside and find that one item that many people keep in their coat closet for self-defense.
A baseball bat.
It’s a cliché place to keep it, but then again life is full of clichés.
I bring the bat with me into the living room, where I hide it behind the pillows on the sofa.
Henry is a long time coming downstairs. And when he does, each step is very deliberate.
Step.
Step.
S
T
E
P
Step.
And stop.
He pivots in the foyer.
“What do you want?”
The boy is sweating.
I am too. Only not as much.
“I wanted to tell you I know how it feels.”
He doesn’t move an inch. He keeps his body at a forty-five degree angle from me, one arm hidden from my view.
“How what feels?” he says.
“Unrequited love,” I say. “It’s a bitch.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that. Why are you really here?”
The dining room is also connected to the living room. Mrs. Lucetti comes in from the kitchen, her apron still on.
“Is everything alright?”
Neither of us say anything. Or look at her.
Whoever moves first, loses.
Henry keeps his eyes on me.
And loses. “Everything is fine, Mom.”
“What’s going on here?” she asks, tentatively.
“Greg was just leaving,” Henry says. “Weren’t you?”
“Oh not just yet,” I say.
Mrs. Lucetti moves instinctively toward her son. “What do you want? What are you doing here? I’ll call the police.”
She has her phone out immediately.
“Go ahead and call them.” I pull the baseball bat out from behind me. “So they can enter this into evidence.”
Henry’s eyes flare.
“Wh-what is that?” Mrs. Lucetti asks in a trembling voice.
“This? The bat your son attacked me with,” I say. “Shame he never played baseball, because he knows how to swing it.”
Henry is trembling with rage. Any second now.
Any second now …
“Get the hell out of here,” he says.
I stand. “Okay. I’ll just take the bat with me. You probably cleaned it, but I’m sure there’s still some of my DNA on it.”
“Henry?” His mother tears her eyes from me and turns to her boy. “Henry, what’s going on? What happened? Did you do something?”
Did you do something?
Ah, yes.
Mom has always suspected there was something off about her son. She just never knew what. Or had her suspicions and didn’t want to know.
“I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING, MOM!”
“Touchy, touchy,” I say. “If you’re innocent, you have nothing to worry about. If this isn’t the bat, I’m sure the police will find the right one. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Henry, what is he talking about?”
Henry Lucetti does not look at his mother.
I say, “Julie told Nick Carlisle, before she left his house, that she was going to talk to her best friend. Most people thought Molly was her best friend, but she wasn’t. Not then. They weren’t on speaking terms. They were too busy fighting about you.”
“Shut up,” he says. “Just shut up. Nick killed her!”
Mrs. Lucetti turns ghostly white, which is hard to do when you have a Mediterranean complexion, and puts a palm over her mouth.
“Julie found out what you did, Henry.”
“Shut up.”
“I get it,” I say. “She burned you. Bad. You’d always been there for her. Waiting. Patiently. And then, after she hooked up with you on the sly for months, she finally, finally frees herself of Nick, and you think it’s your turn.”
“SHUT UP!”
“But then Julie changes her mind.”
“SHUT UP! THIS ISN’T TRUE!”
“Best. Friend,” I say. “I know what it feels like to hear a girl say that. I know how much it hurts. It must have devastated you.”
Mrs. Lucetti has her phone up to her. “Yes, hello. There’s a man in my house. He’s threatening my son, can you send the police?”
I don’t move an inch.
Let the police come.
Let them.
I know I’m right.
“Best. Friend,” I say again.
“SHUT UP! I LOVED HER! I LOVED HER!”
“And she used you.”
“NO SHE DIDN’T! SHE WAS JUST CONFUSED! NICK FUCKED HER UP SO BAD, SHE WAS JUST CONFUSED.”
“She found out what you did, Henry.”
He says nothing. But his whole body is tense.
“She was going to tell her parents. Tell the police. Tell everybody. You were ready to forgive her. But she wasn’t going to extend the courtesy to you.”
Mrs. Lucetti is busy describing me to the 9-1-1 operator. “Please send someone! Just send someone!”
“It wasn’t fair,” I say.
“No,” he mutters.
His face falls. He knows he’s in serious trouble.
He’s now a man with nothing to lose.
And such a man is dangerous.
His eyes murderous.
I have a good grip on the bat, though, in case he’s thinking about charging me.
“Mom, hang up,” he says.
“What?”
He snatches the phone out of her hand and ends the call.
“Henry, what are you—”
He turns to me fully, and I can see what he’s been hiding in his hand.
A gun.
He points it at me.
Thirty-Eight
I try not to stutter.
“She betrayed you, Henry.”
“SHUT UP!”
The gun goes off and I’m sure I’m dead.
Th
irty-Nine
But the bullet misses my head by at least an inch.
At least.
His mother screams, then freezes.
Henry says, “Julie used me. She was a user! She used people up! Everybody thought she was this nice girl who Nick took advantage of, but she used him too, she used every—”
I throw the bat at him.
He flinches, the gun goes off and I’m sure I’m dead a second time. But I keep moving and launch myself at the kid.
It’s a pretty good tackle for a forty-year-old dude still getting over a concussion, and we end up in a heap on the floor. Both scrambling for the gun.
He drives his knee up. It hits me in the ribs.
His hand on the gun.
Mine on his hand.
I pivot my hips and flip him onto his back. Keep a hold of the gun. He kicks. My good side absorbs the impact and turns into a bad side.
Two bad sides now.
Four hands fighting for control of the gun, his mother screaming at the top of her lungs. I see an opening and head butt him.
He’s not expecting the strike.
The top of my head connects with his jaw and Henry loses his grip on the gun. I climb over him and snatch the gun and land on my ass against the front door.
Henry is picking himself up off the floor. His mom is there beside him.
I point the gun at him.
“Don’t move, Henry. It’s over.”
The kid glares at me. His mother is pulling him back.
I can hear the sirens in the distance. Before this moment, I’ve never been so relieved and happy to hear the police coming.
Henry shoves his mother aside.
“Don’t do it, kid,” I say.
I try to steady my hands on the gun, but the adrenaline is pumping full blast and there’s a little shake.
“Nick killed her,” he insists.
“No, he didn’t.” I keep the gun on him. “You did.”
Henry doesn’t argue. Instead, he takes a step forward.
“Don’t,” I say.
“HENRY!” his mother screams.
She claws at his arm, but he slaps her hands away.
“Not one more step, Henry,” I say. “I don’t want to kill you.”
“You already have,” he says.
And he lunges.
Forty
I don’t want to shoot the kid. Or anybody for that matter.
So I do the unexpected.
At the last moment, I roll out of the way.
Henry goes head first into the front door.
THUD.
He slumps to the ground and doesn’t move. His mother is screaming her head off, so loud that I can barely hear the sirens.
I keep the gun aimed at her son until the police arrive. When they have a dazed Henry under their control, I toss the gun aside and put my hands on my head.
I go through the motions at the police station. They turn me loose a little after eleven o’clock, after Henry has fully admitted to killing Julie Stein by using her own Swiss Army knife on her and then carrying the body a half mile and then changing out of his graduation suit and …
Details.
It’s all too much for me.
It’s late, but I remember I missed a call from Lorelei. I’m too tired to go to sleep, so I give her a call, not caring if I wake her.
“Greg. Is everything alright?”
“Yes,” I say, without going into it. “Yes, everything is alright. I wanted to hear how your meeting went with your boss.”
“Really well.” She pauses. “Actually, they made a counteroffer.”
My ears perk up.
“It was a better deal than what the competitor was offering. I’m going to accept it on Monday.”
Perfect fucking ending to the day.
Forty-One
While I read the notice of sale online, confirming that Jason Shaw has moved the Commodore Apartments to somebody else, I hear Wally and Roy going at it again in the hall.
Today, though, they’re playing nine-ball. Race to twenty. First one there buys the other a case of beer.
I feel the sting of missing out on the apartment deal. It was the right property to buy and the right time to buy it. Also this morning, there was an article about the new regional line on the front page. In a few short years, the property value will soar. Equity growing into more equity. It almost seems like stealing. The new owner is fortunate.
He overpaid a little, but he’ll still make out like a fucking bandit.
When the sound of pool balls stops, I know somebody’s come into the hall. I get up from desk in the back and come out.
Nick Carlisle and Denise.
Nick practically runs over and gives me a bear hug. “Thank you, Mr. Owen. Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome.”
I ask him how he’s doing and we talk a few minutes. He’s not going home. Instead he’s going to stay with Denise till he gets back on his feet.
“I heard he wrote a full confession,” Nick says, looking down at his feet. “Have you read it?”
“I have.” The police extended a few courtesies since I, you know, actually solved the fucking crime.
“Do you have a copy?”
“No,” I lie. “And you don’t need to read it. It won’t make this any easier.”
He nods. Seems to accept that answer.
“Nick, can I talk to Greg for a minute?” Denise asks.
He thanks me again and then walks out of the pool hall into the mid-day sun.
A free man.
“Greg. Really.” She wells up. “I can’t thank you enough. You …”
She breaks down.
“It’s alright.”
She opens her purse. But I put my hand over her wrists.
“No more money,” I say.
“But—”
“I won’t take your money.” I nod in Nick’s direction. “Save it for him. He’s going to need it for college, or for a job, or for a car. He needs it more than me.”
“Thank you, Greg.”
“Forget about it. I was happy to help.”
“You always were.” She smiles and I feel like we’re drifting back into dangerous, nostalgic territory.
So I kiss her.
Yep.
Right there.
She’s shocked at first.
Then responsive.
I put my hand on the back of her head and lay a really good one on her. Her hands are on my back.
When I pull away, I look her in the eye.
“Always wanted to do that.”
******************
The Stalked Girl (Greg Owen Mystery #2) is available now!
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Evan Ronan writes mysteries and thrillers filled with lots of suspense, crisp prose, crackling dialog, and wry humor. Sometimes he posts rambling videos on YouTube. Even more rarely he updates his blog.
He loves hearing from readers and can be contacted at ronaniswriting@gmail.com. He always responds to emails.
ALSO BY EVAN RONAN
THE UNEARTHED SERIES (Paranormal Investigator, Eddie McCloskey)
The Unearthed
The Lost
The Accused and the Damned
The Hysteria
Th
e Traveler
The Dream Machine
The Possessed
The Missing
THE DEAD SERIES (Part-time Private Detective, Greg Owen)
The Dead Girl
The Stalked Girl
THE TOMAHAWK AND SABER SERIES
(collaboration with Nathanael Green)
Language of the Bear
Through the Narrows
The Susquehannock
OUT OF THE FIRE SERIES
(collaboration with Nathanael Green)
Out of the Fire
Into the Grey
OTHER NOVELS
UNDO (YA / sci-fi)
Otherworld (Middle Grade fantasy)
stay in your homes (horror / thriller)
The Board (crime thriller)
THE DEAD GIRL. Copyright 2017 by Evan Ronan. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
Edition: August, 2017
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[BO1]Review nick’s story about night of julie’s death