by A. R. Torre
I couldn’t help myself. I smiled despite every urge to frown. “I’m going back to sleep.” I managed the words without any trace of humor, my smile hidden by the manufactured grouch in my tone.
“I know you’re smiling.”
“I’m not,” I growled.
“Whatever. Get up. Get sexy and treat yourself to lunch with this Cayman windfall. Just don’t take the delivery boy. It’ll ruin all my good feelings over crossing this off my list.”
“Bye, Mike.” I should have hung up, but I waited, a smile on my lips, my hand raised, the phone smushed to my ear.
“Bye, baby.”
I hung up.
CHAPTER 33
Present
“WE GOT THE report back on Pacer.”
“And?”
“He was stabbed five times. The majority in the chest area, but you’ve seen that from the photos.”
“What happened first, the ass kicking or stab wounds?” Brenda looks over at David, her pen slowing in its journey across the form.
“They don’t know. Can’t tell.”
“Can’t tell?” She snorts. “That’s bullshit.”
“Then go to med school and march your ass down there and correct them.”
“I’d rather go to Firehouse. You up for a Hook and Ladder sub?”
“Thought you were going no-carb.”
“That was last week. You coming?”
He straightens to his feet. “Only to keep you company.”
“Whatever, Trivette.”
“Trivette?”
“Yeah. You know, the black guy from Walker, Texas Ranger. I thought it could be a nickname.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
CHAPTER 34
Present
WHEN THE RAPS hit my door, I lean quickly forward. Finally. A chance to confront Jeremy and find out what all of this not-answering-his-phone bullshit is about. I end the session and walk to the door. Swing it open and smile. Stop smiling. “Who the fuck are you?”
The guy stares at me, slack jawed, a cardboard box hanging limply from his hand. It’s not entirely his fault. With my assumption that it was Jeremy, the timing right, the knock quick and familiar, I didn’t bother to get dressed, to put something on over my fishnet top and panties. I groan. “Just a second.” I shut the door and grab the closest shirt, yank it on, and jerk the door back open.
The man, a thirtyish redhead with an overly healthy amount of freckles, appears to have composed himself. He holds out the package and manages to look sheepish. “Deanna Madden?”
“Yes. Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m Gary.” He points to his name tag and I snatch the box, tossing it in the general direction of the others.
“Where’s Jeremy?” A stupid question I hate to ask. I should know this, I should know my boyfriend isn’t working, should know in intimate detail the reason for him to not be present, before me, right now. I touch, without thinking, the bridge of my swollen nose. Damn my dramatic chair crash earlier. Damn its effect on my brain and this inconvenient memory lapse.
“He’s out sick.” The guy fidgets uncomfortably.
“Sick?” Jeremy’s not sick. Didn’t so much as sniffle this weekend. I hold up a finger. “Wait here.”
“Ma’am, I don’t really have time…” I ignore him, my fingers quick across my cell screen before I hold it to my ear, praying this time I will be wrong, this time it will ring and he will answer. I listen to silence, then Jeremy’s voice mail. Hang up with a frown.
“Have you talked to him?” I snap my fingers in his face, bringing his eyes up from my bare legs.
“Uh. No. I work the south side normally. Just covering today. I need you to sign for the box.” He holds out the pad, and I take it. Scribble my name and pass it back. “And, uh. You had a pickup scheduled?”
Oh yes. The pickup had half been an excuse to force an interaction with Jeremy, half been necessary for self-preservation. I step back and point. “It’s the one on the table. It’s heavy.”
“Got it.” GoodLittleGary sets his pad on top of the box and squats slightly, sliding the box into his arms, then lifting with his legs in proper save-your-back fashion. He turns back to the door and misses my entire cam setup. I smile politely and he returns the gesture awkwardly.
I hold the door open behind him and look left, toward Simon and Chelsea’s, and wonder at what point in time Chelsea stopped stalking the hallway. Maybe she finally moved out. One good thing in a day full of bad.
CHAPTER 35
Present
“MR. EVANS, PLEASE sign this. It states that everything you will tell us from this moment forth will be part of your statement. After we finish our questions, you may be asked to write down a summary of our discussion. Do you understand you are being recorded?”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No, this is more of a witness statement. Do you understand that you are being recorded?”
“Yes.”
“Good. What is your full name and date of birth?”
“Simon Reynolds Evans. May 14, 1989.”
“Address?”
“It’s the Mulholland Oaks Apartments… I don’t know the street number. It’s on Glenvale.”
“What is your apartment number there?”
“6G. It’s on the sixth floor.”
“And when did you meet Deanna Madden?”
“Deanna? Uh… years ago. Right after I moved in.”
“When did you meet Jeremy Pacer?”
“Around the same time.”
“And what was your impression of their relationship?”
“He was the delivery guy. They didn’t have a relationship. I mean, back then. Now… I don’t know if they’re just fucking or what, but he’s there a lot. Sorry, am I allowed to say fucking?”
“Yes. Ms. Madden gave a statement that says you lock her in at night.”
A long pause. “That a question?”
“Do you lock her into her apartment at night?”
“Well… only ’cause she asks me to. That’s not illegal, right?”
“Why do you lock her in?”
“She says she sleepwalks. So I normally lock her door at night, unlock it in the morning. It’s called being neighborly.”
“Did you lock her door on the night of August 19?”
“When was that?”
“Night before last. Sunday night.”
“No.”
“No? Why not?”
“She told me not to.”
“So you did not lock her door on Sunday night.”
“Nope.”
“It was unlocked all night, she was free to come and go as she pleased?”
“Yeah.”
“Last question, Mr. Evans. Does Deanna strike you as a violent individual?”
“Violent? Out of everyone in our building, she’s the person who scares me the most.”
CHAPTER 36
Present
JessReilly19: something’s up with Jeremy
HackOffMyCock: in what way?
JessReilly19: he’s not answering my calls or texts. His phone is going straight to voicemail
HackOffMyCock: for how long?
JessReilly19: two days. Plus he isn’t delivering my packages. Some new guy showed up.
HackOffMyCock: I’m sure that went well.
JessReilly19: well, you know me
HackOffMyCock: give me 20 mins, let me see if I can track him down
JessReilly19: thx babe
HackOffMyCock: anything for you
HackOffMyCock: u there?
JessReilly19: yep
HackOffMyCock: when did you say the cops came by?
JessReilly19: Monday
HackOffMyCock: well… his truck’s at his house. It hasn’t moved in days. And the last place his cell pinged was near your place.
JessReilly19: meaning what?
HackOffMyCock: who the fuck knows? It’s weird. When’s the last tim
e you talked to him?
JessReilly19: Sunday night. I think we got in a fight.
HackOffMyCock: a normal girl guy fight? Or…
JessReilly19: Maybe Or… I don’t know. Everything is really strange right now.
HackOffMyCock: think the cops are talking to you about Jeremy?
JessReilly19: I hadn’t even considered that. But now… I don’t know. You think something happened to him?
HackOffMyCock: maybe
JessReilly19: well that’s definitive. Thx
HackOffMyCock: its hard for me to know anything from Massachusetts.
JessReilly19: I have 2 go. Need to think.
HackOffMyCock: ok
JessReilly19: bye
---CHAT ENDED: JessReilly19 has left
CHAPTER 37
Present
“MS. EVANS, I understand that you work for the department in Forensics, is that correct?”
“It is. I started three weeks ago.”
“Did you work the Jeremy Pacer scene?”
“Yes. I was called to the scene when the body was discovered. My notes are in the file.”
“But you also know Jeremy Pacer?”
“Yes. We met about the time I started with the department.”
“And you’ve also met Deanna Madden?”
“Yes. The same day I met Jeremy.”
“And what was your impression of Deanna?”
“Hostile. Unfriendly. She and Jeremy seemed to have… a very strange relationship.”
“Please elaborate.”
“A lot of fighting. Mostly her screaming, him trying to calm her. She seemed to fly off the handle over every little thing. And it seemed to be the norm. I mean, he wasn’t surprised by it, best I could tell.”
“And what was your impression of Jeremy Pacer?”
“A nice guy. Kind of the strong silent type. I’m pretty surprised…”
“Surprised by what?”
“Well… that she could do that much damage to him. She’s so tiny. He… there was just so much blood.”
“But you do think she’s guilty?”
“Oh, absolutely. I’d bet my life on it. There’s… well, you’ve met her. Almost an evil about her.”
CHAPTER 38
Present
MY APARTMENT’S FLOORS are concrete, painted over thirty-some years ago with white latex paint. In some places, the paint peels. In others, it’s worn through, a dirty tan shade beneath. I kneel on the floor and scrub, a green Scotch-Brite pad in each yellow-gloved hand, protection that extends up to my elbows. The concrete is hard, my knees damp against my jeans, and I work my way from one side of the apartment to the other.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
I stop every three or four feet to pour down more bleach and to wipe up behind me.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
I open the window and stick my head out. Sunday night’s rip of cardboard making today’s to-do list one step shorter. Inhale to clear my lungs. Look down a hundred feet, at the crumpled mess of dirt, grass, and trash, and get dizzy. Pull in a breath and my head, walk back, and get back on my knees. If I wasn’t hiding evidence, I’d turn on my webcam and do this naked. Get a few thousand bucks richer in the six hours this is taking.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
And this is only step one. Step two will involve powder, then solution. Step three will involve another round of bleach. The floors, then the walls, then the windows. Somewhere in the corner of my mind, Lil Jon gets crunk.
“Move in with me.”
I looked up from the magazine, my elbows on the bed, belly flat, feet kicked up to the ceiling. “I can’t.” Not that I hadn’t thought about it. I had. Thought, envisioned, fantasized. It’d be great. We’d do laundry together, have impromptu sex, make late-night brownies, and pick out throw pillows. Then I’d kill him, and the fantasy would be over.
“Come on… it’s got two bedrooms. You could have a separate one if you wanted.”
“And leave all this?” I tossed a sloppy hand out, sweeping it around in a gesture that encompassed all of the grandeur of the Mulholland Oaks apartment building.
He laughed, putting a knee next to me on the bed and sitting down, his hand rolling me over onto my back, then lifting me up and toward him until my head rested in his lap. “Yes. Leave all this. The new house is gorgeous… but it’s lonely. It needs you.”
I made a face. “I saw the pics. The new house needs nothing. You’re a big boy. Fill it with masculinity and fishing pictures.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and stared down at me. “Please?”
I sighed, looking up and meeting his eyes. God, those eyes haunted me. They were golden retriever eyes, the kind that begged while putting all of their trust in you. “I can’t. You know that. I like it here. This… this is my safe place.”
“I want to be your safe place.”
“You’re not. You’re… you’re the door to everything that isn’t safe. And it’s okay. It’s what I love about you, but it’s also what scares me.”
“Just say it again.” His thumb was soft when it brushed across my mouth.
“I love you.”
He smiled. “Think about it.”
I smiled. “Okay.”
But I never would have moved. I knew that. He had to, deep inside, know it too.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
I got up and moved the table, dragging it over to my cam bedroom. Then I went back and got each of the chairs.
“I don’t need that.” I watched him carry in each of the chairs, my brows raised. I don’t have room for chairs. I know every foot of this place and use it all. Chairs and a table are something I’ll have to navigate around. I’ll trip. Bruise myself.
“Yes you do. Everyone needs a table.”
“I’ve done perfectly fine without one for three years. Haven’t missed one once. I could have ordered this myself, you know.” I was beginning to get irritated, especially as he carried in the large box, a toolbox balanced on top. “Is this going to take long? I’ve got appointments in an hour.”
“It’ll take twenty minutes, tops. Just stop bitching. If you hate them in a week, I’ll carry the set out.”
“And put it where?” I grumbled, flopping onto the floor and watching him. His eyes smiled when they looked at me, and I could hear the point his mind was making, but I liked sitting on the floor. Eating on the floor. This floor was the blueprint to my life.
I scooted back to the wall and leaned against it, watching him work. He moved with easy efficiency, ignoring the folded directions, his hands quick as he put pieces together and used a drill. When he bore down on the wood, his muscles clenched beneath the fabric of his uniform. When he concentrated, his forehead pinched, mouth firmed, eyes narrowed. It was surprisingly arousing, watching him work, some inner cavewoman instinct stirring in me. I see man. He works well. I want man. When he lifted the table up and flipped it over, the round piece settling on the floor evenly and without a wobble, I hoisted myself to my feet. Stood beside him and surveyed his work. “I guess you’re pretty proud of yourself, huh?”
He looked over, his eyes darkening as they dropped to my face, his hands falling from his hips. “Not yet.” He bent, his hands settling on my hips, and spun me up and onto the table, my knees opening, his body pushing in, his hands sliding to and gripping my ass, pulling me to the edge of the table. “But I’m about to be.”
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
CHAPTER 39
Present
“MR. MALCOVE, PLEASE tell us about Jeremy’s girlfriend.”
“Deanna? Not much to tell.”
<
br /> “Because?”
“Because we never met her. It’s pretty strange. You see, the five of us all hang out together, all the time. And the girls are always part of that. Some of my girl’s best friends are the other guys’ girls. That’s just how it is, when you’ve been friends as long as we have. But this chick… she was different from the beginning. Jeremy never said much about her, and has avoided bringing her by, for anything.”
“Did you ask him about it?”
“Did we ask him about it? Man… yes. Hell yes. All the time. It’s our main thing to pick at him about. Thought he had a quadriplegic or bug-eyed girl, or some other crazy shit he was keeping from us. But then he showed us her pictures and, well… we shut up after that. He wants to keep that smokin’ hottie to himself, then whatever. I mean, he’s probably worried she’ll get tempted. I was prom king, you know that? Senior year, Altoma High School. 2003. I can send you a copy of the yearbook page if you want it.”
“We don’t want it.”
“Well, I can. If you change your mind. Just let me know. Anyway, Jeremy’s our pretty boy and all, but sometimes the girls like a man that’s a little rougher. Like me. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t ever brought her around. Or maybe… maybe she ain’t real after all. I mean, shit, have you seen her pictures? Girl could be one of those Victoria’s Secret models, seriously.”
“Did they fight a lot?”
“Fight? Man, I don’t know. Like I said, he’s all tight-lipped about that girl. But I know he’s whipped. Seriously whipped. When she calls, he jumps. And he doesn’t give two shits what we think about it. That’s… I’ve known that kid twelve years and this is the only time he’s ever been like this over a girl.”
“Thank you for your time. We’ll call you with any further questions.”
“What’s this about, anyway? J in some kind trouble with the girl?”
“Would that surprise you?”
“J’s clean. Always has been. He wouldn’t get involved with anything shady.”
“What if she asked him to?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. He’s whipped, but he isn’t stupid.”
