Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet (Charley Davidson) cd-1
Page 31
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Good.” As I turned to unlock my door, she slapped me upside the head. Fred thrust forward and knocked against the doorjamb.
I turned back to her, aghast. “That head is concussed, I’ll have you know.”
“I know. And I’m glad, for your information.”
“That’s not a very neighborly attitude.”
“You almost die right outside the apartment building, and you didn’t think to, perhaps, yell my name? Call out for help?”
“And what would you have done, Cook, besides get attacked coming to my rescue?”
“You know, that excuse is going to get old one of these days.” Her eyes watered, and she looked down. “Do you know how I felt when I found out Earl Walker had tortured you not fifty feet from me?”
The chambers in my heart squeezed shut.
Against my better judgment, Cookie needed to know the truth about what it really meant to be in my life.
I leaned back against my door and folded my arms. “Amber was there,” I said, my voice a mere whisper.
Alarm rushed through her. “What? Amber was there last night?”
“No. That night. When Earl came.”
Her alarm ebbed, and she took a step back. “I don’t understand.”
“When I walked into the apartment,” I said, unable to stop a floodgate of tears as they pushed past my lashes, “Earl was there. And so was Amber.”
Cookie’s hand flew to cover her mouth. She’d had no idea, and I’d been too much of a coward to tell her.
I wiped at my cheeks, angry that all I seemed to be able to do lately was cry. Because crying helped so much. “She was asleep on my sofa.” I saw the image in my mind so clearly, and my stomach lurched with the thought as bad as it had that night. “He had a gun to her head.”
She covered her whole face and shook as a sob wrenched through my chest. I tightened my arms and curled into myself. I was about to lose one of the best things that had ever happened to me, but she had to know the truth.
“As long as I was quiet and cooperated, he said she’d live. You’d both live. He let me lead her to your apartment. She was so sleepy, she never saw him. But he was there because of me, Cookie. Amber almost died because of me.”
After a long moment of contemplation, she took a deep breath and tilted her face toward the heavens. “No,” she said, steeling herself. “No. Earl Walker used Amber to get you to do what he wanted. And it worked, Charley. He knew it would. This is not your fault.”
I gaped at her. “It’s entirely my fault. All of it.”
“Charley,” she said, putting a hand on my shoulder, “I told you this before. You do incredible things, and I get to be a part of it. That incident was one in a million. And it’s over. We have to move past it. The odds of anything like that happening again are astronomical.”
“Do you even pay attention?”
“That captain said it himself. You solved four cases in one day. Four, Charley. That’s—that’s unheard of. And you captured an escaped serial killer. You saved who knows how many lives. And I got to help. We’ll just have to be more careful in the future. We need better locks, right? We’ve already talked about that. And a security system.”
It would hit her later. Anger. Regret. Despair. And she might even hate me a little. Better to hate me for almost getting her daughter killed than for actually accomplishing the feat.
In the meantime, I’d just turned Cookie into a slightly older version of myself. She’d probably be up nights, checking and rechecking the doors and windows, turning the tiniest of sounds into a full-blown home invasion. I could totally see why she liked being my friend. Working for me.
“Is everything okay, pumpkin toes?”
I turned toward Aunt Lillian as she melted through the door. I was just about to answer her when the landlord walked by. “Ladies,” he said, a lecherous grin on his face.
“Traitor.”
He chuckled and knocked on the door to the end apartment.
Cook and I perked up, our interest aroused. I wiped my cheeks, and we leaned together, hoping to get a look at the new tenants.
“I got that other key for you,” he said. Then he ogled us from over his shoulder, wiggled his brows.
I rolled my eyes until they were staring into the face of Barbara.
The door opened, slowly at first, and I fought back a bizarre kind of excitement. It was like opening a present, trying to discern the contents inside, guarding your expression not to show disappointment if it came to that. And perhaps it was the concussed state of Fred and Barbara, or the delicate state of Betty White, her fragile chambers beating between pangs of pain and desperation, but when I saw Reyes Farrow open that door, I was pretty sure I seized.
Cookie inhaled so sharply, Reyes looked past the landlord and directly at us. His eyes glistened in the low light as he looked me over. I did the same to him. He had a bullet wound in his chest from a fifty-caliber that would have ripped another man apart, and yet I felt no evidence of pain or signs of physical weakness from the blood loss. No doubt he was covered in duct tape underneath his dark red T-shirt. The one where the sleeve openings weren’t quite large enough to hang loosely over his arms, so they formed to his biceps instead, caressing them, embracing them.
After he finished examining me, he spoke, his voice like warm brandy on a cold night. “You can just give it to her,” he told Mr. Zamora.
“Oh.” Mr. Z stammered a bit in surprise, then handed me the extra key to Reyes Farrow’s apartment with a delighted leer on his face.
Reyes nodded toward Cookie congenially. “Cookie,” he said, addressing her with reverence. He moved to Aunt Lil. “Lillian,” he said, and if Aunt Lil had died with her dentures in, I was pretty certain they’d have fallen out at that point. Then he leveled his smoldering gaze on me, tilted his head in interest. “Dutch.” He offered me one last look—a look full of promise and desire—before stepping back and closing his door.
We stood there, the three of us, our jaws firmly planted on the floor. Aunt Lil recovered first. She nudged me with her elbow and said with a cackle of delight, “I think you guys should make some more of those brownies, ’cause that boy looks hungry.”
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Document ID: 078f7fcc-f94d-4cf7-ab75-62af0ed1cb1c
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Document creation date: 22.4.2013
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Даринда Джонс
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