by Lucy Score
“I remember six years ago when I was bringing in the groceries, and that noodle-nosed bran muffin didn’t even hold the door for me,” Lily huffed. “Nope. He just let it shut right in my face. And me with an arm full of bags.”
Lily was one of the sweetest human beings on the face of the earth. But she also had a reputation for holding grudges. Fail to hold a door for her when she was having a bad day, and she wouldn’t cry at your funeral.
“You got anything to eat around here?” Mr. Willicott barked at Sergeant Jones as if it were her place.
“There’s eggs in the fridge,” Riley called out weakly.
Mrs. Penny held up an envelope with a law firm logo on it to the ceiling light and squinted.
“I’ll take that, Mrs. Penny,” Riley said, holding out her good hand.
Disappointed, her neighbor handed it over, and Riley stuffed it between the couch cushions.
Nick quirked a sexy eyebrow, but she pretended not to notice. She was physically injured and emotionally scarred, gosh darn it. All these nosy busybodies could suck it.
“I need more plates,” Mr. Willicott yelled from the kitchenette where something was sizzling away on the stovetop.
“Go across the hall,” Lily suggested.
“There’s probably brains and blood all over the place,” Mrs. Penny reminded them.
Riley squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to think about blood and brains. Another vision had come true, and despite everything she’d done, Dickie had still ended up dead. It was a lose-lose as far as she was concerned.
“I don’t know if Dickie owned dishes anyway. We can improvise,” Fred said, untying his legs and rising from the floor.
His shorts were entirely too short, Riley noted in a detached “slipping into a pain coma” kind of way.
“Ms. Thorn, I need to ask you a few questions.” The handsome detective was back. So was the very insistent muscle twitching just beneath Nick’s left eye. A person didn’t have to be actually psychic to pick up on the fact that Nick hated Detective Weber. Or that the feeling was mutual.
“Riley already gave her statement to a uniform,” Nick snarled.
“Here you go, sweetie!” Lily pushed a coffee mug of scrambled eggs into Riley’s good hand. Surprised to find that she was in fact hungry, Riley wedged the mug between her knees so she could eat with her left hand.
The detective sat down on the coffee table facing her and flipped his notebook to a blank page. “Be that as it may, she left out the fact that she went to the station on Walnut Street two days ago and reported that one Dickie Frick was in danger.”
Well, hell.
“How did you—” Riley’s question was cut off.
“Surveillance footage and your license plate,” the detective said.
“Real nice, copper,” Mrs. Penny sniffed. “Good enough to search a license plate but can’t be bothered to save a man’s life with advance notice. Another five-star day for the Harrisburg PD.”
Detective Weber ignored the jibe.
“Is this your handwriting, Ms. Thorn?” Detective Weber held up a piece of paper that had been smoothed out and stuffed in an evidence bag.
Shiiiiiiiit. Riley dropped her fork.
Nick leaned forward, his eyes skimming the note.
“We found it crumpled up in the hallway,” the detective announced.
This entire situation was getting stupider by the second. An idiot was dead because he ignored the warning that should have saved his life. She was being questioned by the cops she went to for help.
Her nose twitched. Uh-oh. And now it was getting harder to focus on what the detective was saying because there was a very insistent dead father figure who kept nudging at her consciousness.
“Tie clip. Tie clip. Tie clip. Tell him.”
What was it about dead people that made them so pushy?
Riley shook her head, trying to dislodge the ghost. “I’m sorry. What were you saying, detective?” she asked.
“I was asking you how exactly you knew Frick was in trouble. Were you in a relationship with him?”
The other occupants of her apartment started laughing, then wheezing.
“Our Riley dates men like Hot Nick here,” Lily announced with an appreciative gleam in her eyes.
“Or that ex-husband of hers. I mean, the guy’s a tool but a hot one,” Mrs. Penny said, fanning herself with an old credit card statement she’d liberated from Riley’s plastic bill bin.
“TIE CLIP.”
“Give me a minute, will you?” she muttered under her breath in exasperation. The last time she listened to her psychic “urges” it hadn’t gone exactly to plan.
“Ms. Thorn, I’m going to need you to tell me exactly how you knew your neighbor was in danger now. Not in a minute. Do you know who did this?” Detective Weber was very, very serious now.
“Tie clip.”
This is what she got for trying to do the right thing. A dead guy poking at her and a live detective ready to slap cuffs on her.
“I had a feeling,” she said, choking out the words.
“A feeling,” Detective Weber repeated. “A feeling made you call the tip line eight hours ago and disguise your voice like Cookie Monster.”
So much for the anonymous part of the anonymous tip line. “That was not Cookie Monster,” Riley argued. It had been her best impression of Mr. Willicott.
“Thorn,” Nick said quietly, shaking his head. Her fake boyfriend was telling her to for real shut up.
“Are you interfering with my investigation?” Weber asked Nick.
“Listen, genius,” Nick snapped. “Why in the hell would she warn you about a murder if she was going to commit it?”
“People do all kinds of crazy things,” Weber said. “I’d think you’d remember that.”
Ugh. She was exhausted, pissed off, sore from head to toe, and the last thing she needed was a pissing contest in her apartment.
“I didn’t kill Dickie. I don’t know who did,” Riley cut in. “Sometimes I just… know things.” Heat flushed her cheeks.
There was no reaction from either man.
She rolled her eyes, which made her headache worse. “Like before they happen. Or I know things that I shouldn’t know.” God, this was humiliating.
“She’s a psychic, dear,” Lily said helpfully, popping up over the back of the couch. She was eating eggs out of a soup bowl.
“A psychic?” the detective repeated.
“I don’t identify as a psychic,” Riley said quickly.
“Her whole family is psychic,” Lily insisted.
“I’m not psychic. Officially,” Riley said lamely. “I just sometimes know things. Like about Dickie. And that the tie clip your dad gave you fell between your washer and dryer.”
The detective’s face went stone still.
“Okay. That’s enough,” Nick decided, standing. He gently pulled her to her feet. “I’m taking her to the hospital. If you have any more questions, ask them with a lawyer present.”
The detective stood too. “Make sure you get me that dash cam footage if you don’t want to be spending the night in jail, Santiago.”
Nick responded with a middle finger over his shoulder.
They left her neighbors in her apartment. It was a slow, painful two flights of stairs. Riley refused to wuss out and use the lift chair. But they managed to eventually make it to the parking lot. Nick helped her into his SUV.
They were both quiet as he pulled out of the lot, leaving the flash of red and blue lights in the rearview mirror.
“You wanna talk about the whole psychic thing?” he asked, finally.
She didn’t bother opening her eyes when she shook her head. “Nope. You want to tell me why you and the detective hate each other’s guts?”
“Nope.”
15
3:25 a.m., Sunday, June 21
Nick pulled up to the hospital’s emergency department entrance and threw on his hazard lights. “Let’s go get that shoulder looke
d at, Thorn,” he said. Hitting up the city hospital’s emergency department in the middle of the night was always a crapshoot.
He half-carried her into the waiting room and manhandled her into a chair near the front desk. It didn’t appear to be a full moon.
There was a snoring homeless woman sprawled across three chairs with a pushcart of belongings next to her. On the other side of the room, a kid vomited profusely into a bucket on his exhausted mother’s lap. A pair of EMTs wheeled a convulsing woman on a gurney in through the doors. The guy in the bloody t-shirt at the admitting desk looked like someone had poked a few holes in him.
“Stay here. I’ll park and get you checked in,” Nick said to Riley.
She had her eyes squeezed shut.
“You okay?” he asked, leaning in and laying a hand on her good shoulder.
“I’m an empathetic vomiter,” she hissed from between clenched teeth. “Trying not to barf.”
He grinned and ruffled her hair. “You’re pretty cute, Thorn.”
She groaned but gave him a ghost of a smile.
After finding a space in the parking garage, he headed straight to the nurse at the desk. He leaned against the counter and smiled dashingly. No one was immune to his charm. Or his dimples.
The woman leaned forward and peered over the reading glasses on the end of her nose. Her knowing grin caught him by surprise. “Well, well, well. Nicky Santiago.”
“Holy shit. Roberta? How’s Teddy doing?” he asked.
“Since you arrested him? Great. Married. Two kids. Works in administration for the Senators baseball team.”
“Good for him” Nick said.
“He’s on the straight and narrow now,” she promised. “What did you bring me tonight?” Roberta asked, shooting Riley a glance.
He cleared his throat. “My girlf—fiancée hurled herself down a flight of stairs chasing a murderer.”
“Fiancée, huh?” She slid a clipboard and cheap plastic pen toward him.
He’d thought the rest of his explanation deserved more attention.
“Yeah. Finally settling down,” he said, flashing her the grin. “I think she’s got a dislocated shoulder. Maybe needs some stitches. Should be in and out real quick.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Roberta said.
He tapped the desk. “Appreciate it. Tell Teddy I said hi.”
He returned to Riley and took the chair next to her.
“Did they say how long of a wait it’ll be?” she asked, leaning into him.
“I’ve got an in at the desk,” he said, angling himself toward her. “They’ll take you back in a minute.”
“An ‘in,’ you say?” She looked at the nurse. “Dated her daughter?”
“Arrested her son. By the way, we’re now engaged.”
That got her attention. “You and the nurse? Congrats.”
“You and me, Thorn,” he corrected.
She frowned. “We are? When did that happen?”
“Around the same time you threw yourself at me on the stairs.”
“That wasn’t a proposal,” she said dryly.
“Come on, Thorn. I don’t want Detective Dickface sneaking back there to harass you. If we’re engaged, they’ll let me go back with you. I’ll play security.”
“I’m not convinced that you’re not just trying to find an excuse to see my boobs again,” she said.
“You don’t want me waiting out here all by my lonesome, do you?”
As if on cue, the homeless woman woke up with an explosive fit of coughing.
“Fine. I accept your proposal. Where’s my ring?”
“You left it at home in the lockbox because it’s not safe to wear at night. I almost lost an eye last week when I rolled over to spoon you.”
“You’ve put a lot of thought into this fake engagement.” Her smile was sleepy, pained.
“I just think fast on my feet. Now, let’s do some paperwork.” He picked up the clipboard. “Name: Riley Thorn.” He drew out the syllables as he wrote. “Riley short for anything?”
“No.”
“Middle name?”
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Uh. Nope.”
“Nope you don’t have one, or you won’t tell me?”
“Won’t tell you. It’s horrific. There’s something very wrong with my parents.” Up close, her eyes were the color of bourbon.
“This isn’t making me not want to know it.”
“Moving on,” she said and slapped the clipboard with her good hand. It fell out of his hands.
“Oops. Sorry. Depth perception,” she said.
Just then, the little boy tossed his cookies for the third time.
“Oh, God,” Riley groaned, closing her eyes.
Nick abandoned the paperwork and put an arm around her. “No puking,” he insisted. He pressed her face into the crook of his neck and covered her ear with his palm. He was definitely not cuddling her. He was just keeping her from barfing all over the floor. Really, he was doing them all a favor. He was heroic like that.
Minutes later, a big guy in scrubs called Riley’s name.
“Only family,” he said to Nick.
“He’s my fiancé,” Riley lied.
Roberta shot Nick a double thumbs-up.
The nurse grunted, clearly not caring that the Nick Santiago was engaged, and led them through the doors and down a hall to a row of hospital beds separated by curtains. It was busier back here. More patients. More staff. The noises and smells of the human body in distress created a special kind of sensory experience.
“Wait here,” the nurse said, gesturing at a bed before drawing the curtain closed.
They both sat on the bed, and Riley sagged down onto the mattress in the fetal position. He stretched out next to her. “You know, this relationship is progressing a little fast even for me,” he said conversationally. “We’re engaged and in bed together, and you haven’t even bought me dinner yet.”
“I guess that makes you easy,” she said dryly.
“I prefer the term ‘cheap date.’”
She winced. “We’re in the emergency department. There’s nothing cheap about that.”
“Then it’s only fair that I put out,” he offered.
She gave a pained laugh and then was quiet for a long minute.
“I can’t believe I’m being spooned in the hospital by a private investigator after my neighbor got murdered across the hall.”
“I can’t believe I’m spooning a hot psychic in a hospital bed.”
“You’re so weird.” She yawned. “And I’m not a psychic.”
They must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew, the curtain was being briskly drawn back by a woman with black-rimmed glasses that matched her inky, curly hair. Nick swiped at the drool on the corner of his mouth and in Riley’s hair.
“Let’s get you upright,” the woman said in a no-nonsense tone.
“Come on, Thorn. Up we go.” He climbed out of the bed and helped ease Riley into a seated position.
“Okay… Riley,” she said consulting her form. “I’m Lisa, your on-duty PA. What brings you to the ED tonight?”
“I fell down the stairs,” Riley said.
The PA turned a shrewd eye on Nick. He put his hands up. “Whoa, hang on. I carried her back up the stairs.”
Lisa didn’t look convinced.
“It was my fault,” Riley said. “I didn’t look where I was going—”
“Sir, maybe you should wait outside.” Lisa opened the curtain for him and gestured toward an empty chair on the other side of the hall.
Riley laughed. “It’s fine. He can stay.”
“Your choice. Now, I just need you to put on this gown,” Lisa said.
“Get out, Nick.”
Dawn was breaking as Nick wheeled Riley with her relocated shoulder, three stitches, and bruised flesh out the automatic doors of the emergency department. Her arm was in a sling, and there were circles as dark as bruises under her eyes.
&nb
sp; The smell of coffee wafted temptingly from the gift shop cafe behind them. Early commuter traffic was already beginning to snarl on Second Street just beyond the parking garage.
“Ready to go, champ?” he asked, parking the chair on the sidewalk.
She rose and immediately wobbled. He slid an arm around her waist to steady her. “How about you wait here? And I’ll get the car,” he offered.
“That sounds—”
“Riley!”
Her face, already stark white against the bandage on her forehead, went even paler.
“Oh, shit. Oh, no. This is not happening,” she whispered.
“Is that…” Nick trailed off as he stared at the man in the suit jogging toward them, clutching a microphone. A cameraman hauled ass behind him.
“Griffin Gentry,” Riley filled in for him. “My ex-husband.”
“I thought he’d be taller,” Nick mused, as the petite, primped putz came to a halt in front of them.
“He does most of his interviews standing on a box,” she said.
“Riley Thorn, Griffin Gentry from Channel 50 News,” he said into the microphone.
“I know who you are,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“What can you tell us about the brutal murder of your next-door neighbor in the early hours of today?” he asked.
Griffin’s blond hair was perfectly coiffed and sprayed with industrial shellac. His suit was somewhere between gray and a light purple. He wore a lavender shirt, a purple paisley tie, and loafers with tassels. The man’s teeth were a shade of white not known to exist in nature.
Speaking of not found in nature, his skin was a dusky orange, and he was wearing a thick layer of foundation. A tangerine weasel.
“No comment,” she said, dodging the microphone he shoved in her face.
“Back off, buddy,” Nick said, escorting her toward the garage and away from the moron. But Gentry jumped in front of them again.
“Is it true that you’re a suspect in the homicide?” Griffin asked, shoving the microphone in her face. “Channel 50 is aware of your history of anger management issues and violence. Would you like to make a statement about your involvement in the death of Mr. Frick?”