“What the hell you think you doing out here, sittin’ in your car? You don’t live here! What business you got to be here?”
Rhonda didn’t seem to recognize Mac out of uniform, despite the fact that he’d taken several noise complaints and reports of suspicious activity from her.
Cracking his window, Mac said, “Just waiting for a friend, ma’am.”
Rhonda leaned in, practically pressing her forehead against his window.
“Please, back away from my car, ma’am.”
“It’s a free country. I ain’t got to do nothing you say.” She tapped angrily on the glass. “What you got going on under that hat? You some kind of pervert?”
“I’m just waiting—”
“I’ll call the police! Swear to God, I will!” She swung her purse, letting it helicopter around her head before bringing it down hard on his hood. “Go on now! Get out of here, you pervert! We don’t need no perverts ’round here, waitin’ for little kids to walk by.”
Wondering how his day could possibly get any worse, he took advantage of her position at the front of his car to re-cap his coffee cup and zip himself back up.
Getting out of the SUV, he grabbed Rhonda’s arm before she beat any more dents into his hood and through gritted teeth, growled, “Goddammit, Rhonda. I am the police. And if you don’t knock this shit off right now, you’re going to blow my cover.”
* * *
Dejectedly, Emily trudged up the stairs to Ginnie’s apartment. She prepared herself to be disappointed, just as she had been with each of the other four group members. So far, no one had any idea where Carl might be.
She wasn’t surprised, of course. Just disappointed.
Her interviews today had confirmed that Carl hadn’t made any friends in group. According to the four she’d already questioned, no one had had any contact with Carl since he’d stopped attending sessions.
Her last hope was Ginnie. Ginnie Walker was a quiet young woman who, like many battling addiction, looked much older than she actually was. A lifetime of verbal and physical abuse had withered her into an empty shell of a person. And Ginnie had done her best to fill that inner void with booze and pills, but to no avail. She wanted desperately to get better. But she was so full of self-loathing she didn’t believe she was capable of sobriety. And more paralyzing than that, she didn’t believe she deserved any better than the life she led. She was a loner who, like Carl, had abandoned group therapy, believing it was all wasted on her.
But if there was any group member who might know where Carl was, it was Ginnie. After all, loners had a way of finding one another.
Opening the door to the main hallway, Emily finally took a full breath after having held it most of the way up the stairs. The stairwell had reeked of urine and garbage, but if she’d hoped for cleaner air within the hallway, she’d been mistaken. She was willing to admit, however, that marijuana smelled infinitely better than urine. Many of the ceiling lights were out, and the one working bulb flickered ominously. She checked her list of work and home addresses for Ginnie’s apartment number before briskly knocking on her door.
Several knocks later, the doorknob slowly turned and Ginnie’s sunken grey eyes peeked out just above the chain.
“Ginnie, hello,” Emily said, trying to mask her surprise at the woman’s condition.
Noticing Ginnie’s protruding collarbone, Emily could see that she’d lost a significant amount of weight since Emily had last seen her. Her waif-like appearance was even more appalling when taken in with the unwashed, uncombed condition of her hair. “May I come in for a moment? I have some questions for you.”
“This really isn’t a good time.” Ginnie started to shut the door.
Emily placed her hand in the small opening, sending up a quick prayer that Ginnie wouldn’t decide to crush it with the door. “Ginnie, please—”
“Look. I can’t be saved, okay? I’m not buying what you’re selling, so just leave me alone.”
“Ginnie, I’m not here to drag you back to counseling, though I would welcome you with open arms if you ever decide you’re ready to change. Please, just open the door.”
Ginnie stared blankly at her for a moment. “Move your hand so I can unlock the chain,” she said reluctantly.
The door was briefly closed and then reopened, but rather than invite Emily in, Ginnie came into the hallway, shutting the door behind her.
“My place is a mess,” she said, her eyes downcast. She leaned one shoulder against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest as if trying to disappear into herself.
“No problem. This will only take a minute. Listen, I was just wondering if you might be able to help me locate someone. I’m trying to find Carl Franks. Do you remember him from group?”
Ginnie’s face remained unchanged, her expression unreadable, her voice monotone. “Yeah, I remember Carl. Why are you looking for him?”
“I’m afraid he may be in trouble…That’s not quite accurate. He is in trouble, but I’m afraid he’s making it worse by hiding from the authorities.”
Emily couldn’t be sure, but she thought Ginnie had tensed at the word authorities.
“The cops are after Carl?”
“Yes. It’s really important that I find him.” There was a long pause and Emily’s instincts told her that Ginnie knew something.
“Well, I don’t know where he is,” Ginnie said, placing one arm behind her back. Emily thought she’d glimpsed a tattoo on the inside of Ginnie’s wrist just before she’d moved her hand behind her back.
“When was the last time you spoke with him?”
“I don’t remember.” Still holding her hand behind her back, which seemed an oddly uncomfortable pose, Ginnie’s voice grew agitated. “I don’t know where he is now, so I can’t help you.”
Realizing this conversation had reached its end, Emily held out her hand. “Thank you for speaking with me, Ginnie.”
When Ginnie just stared at Emily’s outstretched hand, Emily held it there, refusing to back down in this game of chicken. The situation grew more awkward until finally Ginnie balked and removed her right hand from behind her back long enough for a short handshake. She pulled her hand back quickly and escaped wordlessly back into her apartment.
Ginnie had been fast, but not fast enough. Emily had seen the tattoo on her inner wrist long enough to tell what it was. A heart with an inscription that read, GW + CF.
Ginnie Walker and Carl Franks? Could Carl be here right now? Emily pressed her ear to Ginnie’s door, listening for voices, but there was only silence.
Ginnie had seemed genuinely surprised to hear that Carl was on the lam, and Emily was betting that Ginnie didn’t want to be involved in anything that would bring the cops to her door. If Carl was in her apartment right now, odds were she’d be telling him to get the hell out any second. Emily waited, standing completely still against Ginnie’s door, carefully out of the peephole’s field of view. Minutes ticked by, but she heard nothing.
Giving up, she backed away from the door and started toward the stairwell when the last remaining light in the hallway flickered out. Her eyes refused to recalibrate to the absence of light and the silent darkness became unsettling. The windowless hallway was infinitely black, with not even a sliver of light to give her some sense of perspective.
She was floating in a black abyss.
Trying not to panic, she reached for the wall, determined to follow it to the stairwell door. It wouldn’t matter which direction she went because there was a stairwell on both ends of the hallway. That thought was comforting. No matter which way she chose, if she walked long enough she would find the exit.
After a short distance her hand ran across a door, but it was the wooden door of an apartment, and she needed to find a metal door with a bar release.
Emily froze. The stairwell door at the opposite end of the hallway was creaking open slowly. She turned back and in the faint gray light saw the backlit figure of a man. A man whose silhouette was roughly the height
of Carl.
Before she could get a good look, the door slammed shut and the debilitating blackness returned. Heart racing, Emily picked up her pace, only to hear the footsteps thudding over the carpet behind her increase their tempo as well.
Certain the distance between her and the phantom footsteps was decreasing, Emily ran full out with her arms stretched out in front of her. She hit the end of the hall with stunning force, her hands slowing her down enough that her head didn’t smack the wall, but her wrists burned from the impact. Not giving herself a moment to register the pain, she threw herself to the right and fell through the stairwell door.
At the top of the landing, she wasted no time looking behind her as the footsteps closed in. She flew down the stairs, jumping to the next landing from the third step, using the hand rail to pivot to the next flight and down again as fast as she could.
She burst through the door and squinted against the blinding sunlight, but did not slow down. She ran straight for Sandra’s car and groaned when she found the handle locked. Breathing heavily, hands shaking from the adrenaline, she fumbled with her purse, her hand feeling for the keys. She glanced quickly back at the apartment and breathed easier when she realized no one was coming through the door.
A heavy-set woman, wearing an outdated purple tracksuit and red baseball cap, seemed to materialize from nowhere. She strolled by on the passenger side of Sandra’s car. “Honey, what you runnin’ from? You see that exhibitionist pervert inside?” Emily could only stare at the woman. “Mmm. Hmm. I thought so. I’d be runnin’ from him too. Coverin’ his self with nothin’ but a baseball cap. Ought to be ashamed of himself.” The older woman rested her forearms on the hood of the Toyota and with all seriousness said, “Too bad he’s a pervert, though. Between you and me, I think he’s kinda cute.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Leaving her office that afternoon, Emily wondered what kind of mood Mac would be in when he picked her up from work. He’d been surly and quiet on the drive to her office earlier that morning, the interior of his SUV filled with nothing but an awkward silence. It was the loudest silence she’d ever experienced.
A grocery bag in each hand and a messenger bag slung over her shoulder, she used her backside to open the main door of her office building, hoping her peace offering would lighten his mood.
He was already waiting for her, his SUV parked at the curb with the passenger door open for her. He walked toward the garbage can by the door, holding a coffee cup as far from himself as humanly possible while touching as little of it as possible, and tossed it into the trash.
“What’s with the grocery bags?” he asked, relieving her of the plastic sacks and placing them in the back seat.
“I think I owe you an apology dinner.” She smiled. “And maybe a little thank-you dessert.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Apology dinner?”
“Yes. I feel terrible about what happened this morning. I should have asked you before inviting Martin in.” She followed his cue from earlier that morning, when he’d made a point of using his father’s first name.
“Emily, that wasn’t your fault.”
“Well, just the same, I’d like to make it up to you,” she said, stepping into his SUV.
He closed the door behind her and jogged around the front of the vehicle. He eased into the driver’s seat and paused before starting the car. “Em, I’m the one who owes you an apology. I’ve been in a foul mood lately and I wasn’t in the best frame of mind to deal with Martin.” He turned to her, his warm brown eyes full of remorse. “I’m sorry I took it out on you after he left.”
Hearing the sincerity in his apology and understanding how disturbing it must have been for him to face the man who’d been so cruel to him as a child, her throat tightened. “Mac—” she rasped.
“And that’s why I got you this,” he interrupted, grinning boyishly and reaching behind her seat for a brown bag with twine handles. “It’s an I’m-sorry-I-was-an-asshole gift.”
Emily was speechless. She took in the bright red tissue paper and matching curling ribbon used to tie the handles together.
He cleared his throat. “The woman at the store wrapped it for me.” She wondered at the nervousness in his voice when he quietly added, “Go ahead. Open it.”
Grasping the tissue paper and gift, she pulled out the heavy object, letting it fall into her lap. She pushed aside the red paper and found a large jar candle. She picked it up and read the label aloud. “Morning Cup of Joe.” She smiled. “You got me a coffee-scented candle.” It was quite possibly the sweetest gift she’d ever received. The reference to something that only he teased her about added intimacy to the gesture. “I love it,” she said, uncapping the candle and sampling the coffee aroma, while avoiding eye contact and hoping he didn’t notice the sheen of tears currently blurring her vision.
She’d let someone into his home who had hurt, disappointed, and neglected him for a lifetime and yet, he was apologizing to her for raising his voice. Did he not think he had a right to be angry? A right to feel hurt? She’d understood his reaction was meant for his father and not her. He had nothing to apologize for.
“Am I forgiven then?” he asked, his jovial tone thinly masking the uncertainty beneath.
She blinked away the moisture in her eyes. “There was nothing to forgive, Mac. Truly. Anyone in your shoes would have been upset.”
Silence, heavy with unspoken emotions, filled the car until Mac finally put the SUV in gear and asked lightheartedly, “So now, what’s this about a thank-you dessert?”
“Well,” she said, matching his tone. “Since you’ve so graciously taken on the role of bodyguard, given up your bed, your sleep, and a few vacation days, I figure—at the very least—you deserve some of my famous chocolate brownies.”
“Famous, huh? Do they have frosting?”
“But of course,” she said, basking in the warmth of his lopsided smile.
“Sounds perfect,” he said.
Unsure if she should bring it up since he’d apparently wanted to keep it a secret from her, Emily decided to take a chance. “Of course, I’m going to have to think of something on a much grander scale than brownies to repay you for having my office repainted.”
“How did—”
“Oh, I have my sources Officer McAvoy. You’re not the only one with investigative skills.”
“Uh-huh. And how much did this information cost you? Ten bucks?”
She laughed. “Twenty, actually. And it cost Sandra, not me.”
“Ah, well, that’s good at least,” he said, smiling.
“You didn’t have to do that, you know. The insurance would have covered having it repainted.”
His attention on the road, he turned the steering wheel. “I know. But I didn’t want you to have to look at that all day.”
“Thank you,” she said, touched by his thoughtfulness. “It really did make going back to work today a little easier.”
“You’re welcome,” he said.
This time, when silence descended, it was comfortable and familiar. Emily watched the scenery pass by—trees turned amber and gold by the crisp fall weather—and let the gentle rumble of the SUV lull her into a near-sleep state.
They arrived at Mac’s apartment and after parking in his assigned spot, he turned to her, arms resting over the steering wheel. “Em, I just—” She sat straighter in her seat, brought to attention by the urgency in his tone. “I want you to know that you don’t have to thank me for any of this. I wanted to help.”
His need to clarify puzzled her. “I know,” she said, smiling, “you’d do anything for Sean. And he’d do anything for you.”
She regretted the words immediately. She didn’t know what she’d said wrong, but somehow, she’d offended him.
“Right,” he said, no longer looking at her, but staring straight out the windshield. “I’d do anything for Sean.”
* * *
Mac’s apartment had never felt more like home than it did right now. Ti
nkering about in his kitchen, Emily hummed softly to herself. The candle he’d given her burned on the counter, giving off a surprisingly authentic coffee scent.
He’d been reluctant to let her out of his sight, but when she’d gone to the grocery store, he risked five minutes in the candle shop next-door. And it had been worth it to see her smile when she’d opened the gift.
She’d changed out of her work clothes into casual jeans and a fitted t-shirt, which flattered her alluring curves without revealing even a hint of skin. The picture of domestic harmony, she moved silently around his kitchen in her bare feet, and he was beginning to feel uncomfortable with how much he enjoyed having her there.
Thinking out loud, he said, “I don’t think anyone’s ever cooked in this kitchen before.”
“You don’t cook?” She asked, turning the knob and bringing the gas stove to life with a click. She placed a pot of water on to boil.
“Not much more than scrambled eggs,” he admitted. “I tried when I first moved out of my mom’s house, but nothing I made could compare to her cooking, so I gave up.”
She paused in her dinner preparations. “Was she that good of a cook? Or are you just really terrible?”
He laughed. “No, she was—is—an amazing cook.” He was sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar, the counter separating him from Emily. Was it some sort of bartender effect that made him want to open up to her? “In a way, I think cooking saved her life.”
“How so?” Emily asked, her gaze linking with his as she cranked open a can of whole tomatoes.
“Martin never let my mom work,” he said. “When I was young, I thought it was because he was old-fashioned and believed that women should stay home. But now, I know it was one of the ways he kept her as his victim.”
Emily nodded, no doubt understanding a phenomenon she encountered frequently in her line of work. “If your mother had had her own money, then she’d have had a way to leave him. But as long as she was dependent on him, she would stay.”
Talk to Me Page 17
