by N.L. Wilson
Chapter 12
In my wildest dreams, I couldn’t have foreseen what would happen to me that day.
Possibly because my wildest dreams do not involve my life going into the dumpster. And there could be no question that’s where I was headed. Literally.
The alley, if you could call it an alley when it was bisected by a freaking nine-foot fence, proved a tricky escape route. The fence, a solid wood proposition, was too tall and too foothold-free for me to scale. Fortunately, a dumpster squatted right up against the fence. A dumpster that was no longer covered, its lid having been wrenched off by vandals not long after I’d moved into the building. I’d given up harping to the landlord about it months ago. So, there I am with an open dumpster and a nine-foot fence between me and freedom. No problem, I think. I’d just climb up on the dumpster, edge my way around to the fence and boost myself over.
Great plan, until I lost my footing and fell into the damned thing. And oh, Jesus, what a smell! Cursing, I pushed myself up out of the pizza boxes, rotting vegetables and rolled up disposable diapers. Ugh.
Goddamned leather soled flats. Next time I went on the lam, I wanted better footwear.
And then—oh, shit!—something small and fast moved under my foot. I came up out of that dumpster like a rocket and over the fence, slippery footwear notwithstanding.
As I pulled the cold, green pasta from my hair brushing the... whatever-the-hell-that-was from my jeans, I realized how very much this whole situation... well, stank.
But I’d seen a lot over the years as a PI, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that women are resilient. When we have to face our dark hours, we do. And we usually find a silver lining there.
Don’t we?
My silver lining, as I loped off down the street, was picturing Dickhead, patience exhausted, finally barging through my office door and finding me gone. Finding Blow-Up Betty holding the phone in one hand and flipping him off with the other. He’d be frothing at the mouth!
I felt a tinge of guilt for leaving Dylan behind to handle the wrath of Detective Dickhead. He might not be spitting bullets, but certainly he’d be spitting toothpicks around the office as he raged and made ever more colorful expletives from my name. I knew he’d take it out on Dylan, blame him for my escape. Of course, there was nothing to link my escape to Dylan. Nothing anyone could prove, anyway. But Dickhead was the kind of man who needed to blame others for his fuck ups—you know, the kind of guy to shoot the messenger (thus back again to his blaming me when his wife found out he was cheating and left him). But Dylan could handle Dickhead. That law degree did come in handy sometimes. Hell, if I knew Dylan, he’d be hard pressed trying to hold back the laughs when he saw Blow-Up Betty so artfully posed. In any case, I’d know soon enough what had gone down between Dylan and the detective.
Because Dylan would know where to find me.
You see, we had it all worked out. Granted, we’d worked it out not so much in anticipation of my escaping lawful custody, but rather as a hedge against the possibility of my having to go into deep cover some time.
If I’d moved the dead aloe vera plant from the window and tipped it over on the floor to the left of said window, he’d have met me at the airport with some cash. If I’d left the plant upside down directly in front of the window, we would meet at the university library (third floor, stack twelve in the BFs). But I’d set it to the right of the window, and he’d know what that meant.
Of course, he also had to know that the cops would be tailing him to see if he would lead him to me. But I had faith in Dylan Foreman. He’d be patient. He’d be smart.
And he’d be there tonight.
I’d slowed to a brisk walk now, partly because I’d developed a stitch in my side (despite my gymnastics in clearing that fence back there, I am no athlete), and partly because I knew I’d attract less attention. But even with an ache in my side, even with the black cloud of a waiting jail cell hanging over me, I couldn’t suppress a small smile. The Flashing Fashion Queen thought she was pretty smart. But I was willing to bet she wasn’t counting on me running. She’d wanted my ass sitting helplessly in lockup while she dug a deeper hole for me by the minute. Well, bite me, baby! I wasn’t going to be her victim. I wasn’t going to be anyone’s victim. And as far as the Flashing Fashion Queen was concerned, I was about to become her worst fucking nightmare.
Did I finally have one up on her? I couldn’t help but grin as I wondered how that would make her feel when she realized I was still at liberty. The control was slipping out of her hands. She’d fucked up this once, and I had to believe that would rattle her.
