by Alana Terry
“Very.”
He looked a little disappointed. “Ah,” he said. “I’m sorry if my offer causes any friction between the two of you. If I’d known—”
“It was thoughtful.” I set the plate down.
“If anything changes between you and him, you know where to find me,” he added quickly.
I gave him a tense smile and felt relief crest over me as I walked away. I had managed not to bungle the interaction or freak out for what appeared to be no apparent reason. I dropped back into my chair and wrapped my fingers around my tea.
“Is he crying?” Jace asked.
“Why on earth would he be crying?”
“Because a beautiful woman just returned his please-pay-attention-to-me gesture and then told him she’s not interested. What’s to be sad about?”
I scrunched my nose at her. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
She glanced over her shoulder, and I followed her gaze. The man had slipped away, and the lonely muffin sat in the center of an otherwise empty table.
“Quick, go grab the muffin,” Jace whispered.
I laughed. “I am not going back for the muffin.”
“Fine, I’ll grab the muffin.” She weaved through the tables and chairs and plucked the chocolate muffin off the empty table. I bit down on my lips to keep from asking if she’d lost her mind. She parked back at our table and grinned before taking a huge bite and asking something that sounded like, “Do Jews have any pants to play?”
I frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak muffin.”
She gulped it down and repeated, “Do you have any plans today?”
“Nope.” Not until I got my camera back. I was wishing I’d hit the man in the face with a rock instead of my camera. “So, where are you and Mr. Doe going to lunch?” I asked casually.
“Papa Gio’s. You know, the place I bought Italian from Friday night and you forgot to pick it up.”
So she was still upset about that. That was okay. She would be more upset if I told her the truth. “Did you do a background check on him yet?”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course. I tried to google him and all that came up were articles about dead guys. It’s the last name. And he doesn’t have a Facebook. The guy’s forty. He’s not a dinosaur. Who doesn’t have a Facebook?” Then she paused and looked at me. “Oh. Right.”
Yeah, aside from an anonymous email account to connect with new clients, I avoided the Internet like a contagious disease. “Does he have one of those Twinner things?”
“Twitter, Holly. Tuh. They’re t’s, not n’s. And the only Gale Doe I found on Twitter is a guy who knits doll booties for his doll collection, so I really hope he doesn’t. And before you ask about Misplace, it’s actually called MySpace, and no, no one really uses it anymore.”
I smiled behind my cup of tea.
A shrill whistling pierced the murmur of voices outside, and I nearly jumped out of my chair.
“It’s just your phone, Holly,” Jace pointed out with a perplexed expression.
Right. I was going to have to change that ringtone. I pulled the phone from my bag with shaky fingers, and fear stiffened my spine as I stared at the blank screen. This couldn’t be happening again.
“Holly, what’s wrong?”
“It’s not my phone,” I mumbled absently as my gaze flickered over the faces in the cafe, seeking the one from the park.
The whistling abruptly stopped and then started up again a moment later. It was a phone. It just wasn’t my phone.
“Sorry, that’s me,” a woman muttered to her friend behind me. She rummaged around in her purse until she found her phone. The whistling grew louder as she pulled it out. She tapped the screen and the sound died. I breathed a mental sigh of relief and slid down in my chair.
Jace was watching me closely. “What was that?” At my blank stare, she explained, “That phone went off and you went white. I thought you were gonna pass out.”
I shrugged mutely and held my tea a little tighter.
Jace’s phone rang, and the death march filled the air. She glanced at me as she fished it out of her purse. “Well, at least mine didn’t startle you into a full-on seizure.” She had one of those smart phones the size of a giant chocolate bar, and it took up the entire right side of her face when she pressed it to her ear. I heard her mutter a few words to the person on the other end, but I was too lost in thought to follow her conversation. “Holly,” she said after a moment, and her tone suggested it hadn’t been the first time.
“What?” I asked blankly.
She frowned at me and said, “I have to go to the library. Terry got sick. It’s just a five-hour fill-in shift, but I have to hurry. They’re about to open. Are you okay walking home?”
A little spark of fear kindled in my stomach but I smothered it. I was a grown woman. I could handle walking home alone. “Yep, I’m good.”
“Cool. I’ll call you after my date.” She plopped her purse in her lap, gave me a little wave, and headed off to her car.
I sank lower in my chair and flipped open my phone. I needed to figure out how to change the ringtone. I didn’t want to lose it every time my phone rang, which, admittedly, wasn’t often. I was still fumbling my way around the menu several minutes later when someone screamed.
Another scream and then chaos erupted around me. People clambered over chairs and tables, and glass shattered on the pavement. Someone shouted, “Call for help!”
What on earth?
I stood up and tried to see what was happening. A tall man with wavy blond hair was visible above the crowd, and people parted around him. When he came into view, cold fear flooded my extremities.
He was paler than I remembered, and something red tinged his parted lips, but I recognized the Whistling Man’s face. He staggered through the cafe on stiff legs, and bright red blood spilled down the front of him.
His eyes locked on me and he changed direction. I stumbled backwards over my chair until my back hit the glass window of the coffee shop. The man’s mouth spasmed like a suffocating fish as he tried to speak.
“Me,” he managed to say.
He reached out a hand toward me, and I tried to shrink away, but there was nowhere to go. He stumbled into the chair and lost his balance. He fell to the pavement and took the table with him. I didn’t scream. I wasn’t sure I could make a single sound as I gazed at him in horror.
He lay on his back at my feet, dying on a sidewalk full of people who crowded around to watch. His eyes met mine, and I saw his terror and desperation. “Help . . . me.”
I froze. He wanted me to help him. Of all the people at this cafe, he’d fallen at my feet. I didn’t want to help him. But I didn’t want to watch him die either.
God, what do I do?
I wrestled with my choices until one finally won out. He was still a human being. I pulled the scarf I had borrowed from Jace over my head and sank to my knees beside him.
I pressed the wadded-up scarf to the wound on his abdomen and leaned down. He gasped in pain. I hoped someone had called an ambulance, because the scarf was saturated in seconds.
7
I sat against the front window of the coffee shop with my legs drawn to my chest. In some part of my mind I was aware of people moving around me and murmuring, but I just stared at my palms.
The man’s blood had soaked through the sleeves of my shirts and into the knees of my pants. I had peeled off my saturated gloves and thrown them aside, but it had already touched my skin. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen my hands covered in blood, but it had been darker then.
I remembered the slick feel of it between my fingers and the way it had glistened in the moonlight. I had tried to rub it off on my nightgown. I remembered knowing that it belonged to someone I knew, but I couldn’t remember who or when.
A familiar Southern voice broke into my thoughts. “I received a call about one of my suspects.”
“We’re pretty sure the deceased is the man you were looking for in con
nection to your recent assault case,” another male voice explained.
“Cambel Broderick?”
My ears followed the conversation—drawn to the gentle cadence of that familiar voice—but my mind drifted between fragmented thoughts and memories.
“And then there’s the matter of the young woman covered in blood.”
“What young woman?” Detective Marx demanded.
“She’s approximately five-one, red hair, brown eyes,” the man explained.
“You’ve got to be kiddin’ me,” Detective Marx groaned. “Is she all right?”
I could smell the damp forest around me, and feel the painful prick of twigs and weeds beneath my cold bare feet as I gaped at my hands. The echo of someone’s scream rang in my ears—a child’s scream. No, that wasn’t right. I could hear Detective Marx’s voice, and he wasn’t in the forest.
A figure crouched down in front of me, and the sun vanished behind him. “Why am I not surprised to find you out and about in the city alone?” Detective Marx asked, but there was no bite to his tone.
I dragged my eyes away from my hands to look at him. Worry was etched across his face. I blinked, but I couldn’t gather enough of my senses to form a coherent sentence. I looked past him to the body lying on the pavement.
“He’s dead,” I said after a long moment.
“I see that,” Detective Marx replied softly.
My brain felt confused and sluggish, and I couldn’t seem to put my thoughts in order. “Someone died.”
“Yes, somebody did,” Detective Marx said with practiced patience. But he didn’t understand. I didn’t mean the man on the pavement. “Can you tell me what happened?”
I had tripped and fallen in the blood and there was so much of it on my hands. I needed to get it off. I tried to wipe it off on my clothes like I’d done once before.
“Holly,” Detective Marx scolded as he caught my forearms. “Stop it. That’s evidence.” I tried harder, desperate to get it off, but he held my arms away from my body.
“Don’t touch me.” I twisted my arms from his grip, and he made no effort to hold me. I crossed them over my chest and tried to scoot closer to the wall. I didn’t like him in my personal space.
“Okay.” He raised his hands slowly and moved back. “Hands to myself. You have my word.”
I watched him warily until I was certain he intended to keep that promise. I relaxed a little and looked around at the overturned chairs and tables and at the police uniforms that swarmed the area. I was at the café where I’d been having tea with Jace.
The sounds and smells of the forest faded to the back of my mind, returning to whatever mysterious place they had come from, but my hands were still wet with blood. It wasn’t hers. Hers. My mind tried to wander down that slippery path, but I wrenched it back.
My eyes drifted back to the man’s body on the pavement. “Why is he dead?”
“Because somebody killed him,” Detective Marx stated matter-of-factly. He motioned one of the officers over and ordered, “Cover that body before any more of these vultures snap photos. The Medical Examiner should be here soon.”
“But . . . why is he dead?”
“I don’t know why, Ms. Holly.”
“But you have a theory.”
The worry I had glimpsed in his face when he arrived only deepened. “Why don’t you just tell me what happened?”
I knew there was a reason I shouldn’t tell him what had happened, but it took me a moment to find it in the confused haze of my mind. I’d already made the mistake of giving my statement once, and I knew it would probably cost me.
I shook my head and he frowned.
“Why are you shakin’ your head at me?”
“I have nothing to say.”
He narrowed his eyes at my response. “I find it interestin’ that—considerin’ you’re not a suspect of a crime—you frequently have nothin’ to say, Ms. Holly. So let me explain how this works: whether you speak to me or not, a police report will be filed, and because you’re a participant in this . . . unpleasant mess, your name and any evidence collected from your person will be included in that report.”
A fresh wave of fear washed over me.
“If you’re concerned about the media or some other party gainin’ access to your statement, don’t be. Our database has never been breached, and we’re not in the habit of sharin’ our records with the public.”
“Detective,” a woman called. Our attention shifted to the young, blond woman crouched next to the body. She was dressed in normal attire, but the badge hanging around her neck on a lanyard identified her as a deputy medical examiner. She held up one side of the sheet with a gloved hand. “You may want to see this.”
Detective Marx sighed. “We’re not done with this conversation, Ms. Holly. Don’t you move.”
I lifted my hands. “Can I—”
“Not yet. We need to collect the evidence.” He waved over an older woman with a tackle box. She weaved around the police tape that cordoned off the body and approached us. “Could you take care of Ms. Holly, Jeanie?”
“I’d be delighted,” the plump older woman declared with a sweet smile. With her short, curly gray hair and small glasses, she looked like the stereotypical grandmother who should be home baking cookies with a flowery apron on, not scraping DNA out from under someone’s fingernails.
“I’ll be right over here,” Detective Marx said, gesturing to the body. “And try to be gentle with her.”
Jeanie looked stricken at the suggestion she might do things any other way, and she sputtered, “Well, of course, Richard.” But I was pretty certain his parting comment had been meant for me.
Jeanie pulled a chair over and sat down in front of me. She opened her tackle box to reveal various swabs, gloves, bags, and canisters. She snapped on a pair of purple gloves and grabbed a long cotton swab.
That cotton swab reminded me of another time and place, and I fought to shut out the gut-twisting memory. This was a completely different situation.
“Now then, let’s have a look at those fingernails,” she said. When I lifted my hands, she gasped, “Oh, don’t have many of those left, do you?”
I blinked at her bluntness and glanced past her at Detective Marx. Maybe I’d been wrong and his parting comment had been for her. He flashed me a smile before crouching down next to the body alongside the medical examiner.
“You really shouldn’t chew your nails, dear. It’s an unsanitary habit.” Jeanie continued. She took samples from my palms and beneath my nails. “Now, I need your clothes.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your clothes are covered in trace evidence, and I’ll be needing them. Up you get, let’s go.”
I frowned and pushed myself to my feet. I certainly hoped she had something else for me to wear.
She gathered up her tackle box and declared, “Follow me.”
My eyes snagged on Detective Marx as we passed by. The grim expression on his face left me wondering what else lay beneath that sheet. He shifted his weight to get a better angle, and I could see the tension in his body. He exchanged a few hushed words with the medical examiner.
Jeanie led me to the restroom and set a pair of clean scrubs on the corner of the sink. She stepped out of the room when I refused to change in front of her, but ordered me to leave the door cracked. If I intended to destroy evidence by putting it in the sink or toilet, she would see me before I had the chance to do so.
I rolled up the legs of the scrubs until I could see my feet. I looked ridiculous. I wadded up my clothes and stepped out of the bathroom. Jeanie held out an open evidence bag with a sweet smile, and I shoved my clothes into the bag.
Detective Marx was leaning against the wall next to her. His expression was guarded, and two uniformed officers stood to his left.
“What’s going on?” I asked warily.
Detective Marx pushed away from the wall and said, “Let’s get you home, and we’ll discuss it there.”
Chapter
8
I PACED ANXIOUSLY FROM the foot of my bed to the outside bathroom wall as I stole glances of the three police officers in my small apartment. Their presence made my home feel cramped and smothering.
The uniformed officers tried to be invisible as they stood close to the door, but Detective Marx leaned against the kitchen table, his fingers tapping the edge as he watched me pace.
His expression was firm but patient. I had a feeling he was waiting for me to calm down, but if so, he would be waiting for quite some time.
“You’re gonna make yourself dizzy, Ms. Holly,” he said.
I was already dizzy, but I couldn’t bring myself to sit. “Why are they here? Do they have to stand right in front of the door?” It was my only exit, and having it cut off wasn’t helping my nerves.
Detective Marx twisted to see the two officers. “Would the two of you mind steppin’ out for a moment?” The two officers nodded and obediently filed out the front door before closing it behind them. “You’re not trapped, Holly, but I do need you to stay here with me.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s safer than talkin’ on the street, and I thought you’d be more comfortable here than at the precinct.”
I stiffened. “I didn’t do anything. You can’t arrest me.”
He rubbed the back of his neck tiredly and mumbled, “I have no intention of arrestin’ you. But we need to talk about the man who killed your attackers from the park.”
“You know who killed them?”
“I think you know who killed them.”
My pace slowed and I stared at him. “I told you. I don’t know anyone who would do something like this.” The disbelief I saw reflected in his eyes bothered me. I wouldn’t lie, especially about something as important as a human life.
“Well, let me tell you what I know, and maybe it will jog your memory.” He pulled out his notebook and dropped it on the table beside him. “Jimmy Miller was murdered Friday night in the park shortly after threatenin’ you. Cambel Broderick disappeared Friday night after assaultin’ you. He shows up three days later outside a cafe where you just happen to be, seeks you out of the crowd to ask you for help, and then falls down dead.”
