Again he hesitated, perhaps debating his options, like he had any. “For all I know, you two are the ones who killed him.”
“You were in the house when we got here,” I said. “Which tells me you knew he was dead.”
“Naw. You got it all wrong. I mean, I did see him when I got home, but I wasn’t here when it happened.”
“Where were you then?”
“I spent the last day with my girl. Since Louis started sleeping here, she won’t stay over anymore, so I’ve been chillin’ at her place. I just came to shower and change my clothes. I walk in, see him dead on the floor, then you two show up, and I didn’t know what to do. So I ran.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Ten minutes, tops.”
“When was the last time you saw Louis alive?” I asked.
“Two nights ago.”
“Tell us about it.”
“Louis rolled up in here with a wad of cash in his hand. He was wavin’ it all around, all showin’ off, actin’ like he’d just won the lottery or some shit.”
“How much money are we talking?” I asked.
“Seven, eight C-notes, at least. Maybe more.”
Confused, I looked at Finch.
“Seven or eight hundred dollars,” Finch said.
“Couldn’t he have just gotten paid from work and cashed the check?” I asked.
Eddie shook his head. “Naw. He don’t get paid until the end of the month, and he never has that kind of cash even when he does get paid. He has all kinds of bills. He’s dead broke.”
“Where did the money come from then?”
“All he said was he was quitting his job. Found somethin’ a lot more lucartive.”
“You mean lucrative?” I asked.
Eddie nodded.
“Did he say who gave him the money or anything about his new job?” I asked.
Eddie scratched his head. “I mean, he just said he was movin’ outta his mom’s place for good.”
I sensed he was still lying. He did know something. He just wouldn’t say.
I picked my phone out of my pocket, looked at Finch. “I’m ready to make that call now.”
CHAPTER 9
Several hours later, I’d downed my third shot of vodka, which may have actually been my fourth shot, or my fifth. At this point, I was no longer counting. A man who’d been eyeing me from across the bar for the last half hour mustered up enough liquid courage to brush chicken-fingers crumbs off the front of his plaid, button-up shirt and make his move.
He stood.
He smiled.
I smiled back.
He raised his beer bottle.
I raised my empty shot glass, thought about summoning the barmaid for a refill.
The ice between us was officially broken.
I wondered if he’d wave next.
He didn’t.
Forty-five minutes earlier, before he’d noticed me noticing him, I watched him scan the room, turn toward the wall, wrestle his wedding band off his finger, and shove it into his front pocket when he thought no one was looking. It was a douche move, and it begged the question: Why walk into the bar with it on in the first place just to take it off minutes later? The answer, of course, was a simple one. Whether or not he took it off depended on him first assessing the goods, scouting the bar to see if there was anyone worth taking it off for. I didn’t know whether I felt flattered or disgusted. Actually, I felt a bit of both.
The man’s face was decent in a Keebler-elf sort of way, and his broad smile reeled me in—for a moment. When the moment passed, he shoved the tips of his fingers into his jeans pockets and headed in my direction. For a man who looked like he was pushing forty, the overall package wasn’t half bad. Sure his male-pattern baldness seemed to have taken a turn for the worse in recent years, even though he attempted to hide it by spiking up what sparse, brown hair he still had left. I imagined he assumed it wasn’t noticeable, but denial hadn’t been kind.
He reached the table and hovered over me, his eyes like a vulture, waiting for an invitation he’d never get. With all the alcohol I’d poured into my body, he probably assumed I’d be an easy lay. If so, he was mistaken.
“Hey there,” he began. “Want some company?”
I didn’t want company tonight, especially his, but I offered the seat beside me anyway. Whoever said chivalry was dead must not have ever hung around a bar after eleven o’clock on a weeknight.
He sat. “What’s your name?”
“Lacey.”
I thought about going full throttle and throwing in a last name too, but Lacey Thong was a bit too much to swallow, even for a dimwit like him.
“I’m Jordan,” he said. “What are we celebrating?”
“We’re not. Celebrating, I mean.”
“What are we mourning then?”
I attempted a fake smile, which I assumed looked a bit like a coyote wooing a fluffy rabbit, and said nothing.
“Whoever he is, he’s not worth it.” He placed a hand on my wrist. “It’ll be okay, you know. Been through a few breakups myself.”
I resisted the urge to ask if he was referring to mistresses or wives or both. “I never said we broke up.”
“You don’t have to. I can see it in your eyes. I’m good at reading people.”
I bit my upper lip, attempting to keep the growing urge to laugh contained.
The barmaid walked over. I flicked my shot glass in her direction so fast it almost slid off the table. The confused look on her face when I said “uno mas” made me question whether I’d slurred my words, but she took the glass and nodded anyway. Jordan ordered a shot of whiskey. Both beverages were brought over, and we clanked our respective glasses together.
“So you’re in a relationship then?” he said. “That’s okay.”
Of course it was.
“I’m not, and it isn’t,” I said.
Now he looked confused. I downed the vodka, blinking a few times at the shot glass after I set it down on the table. It looked more and more like two glasses the longer I stared at it, but I was sure the waitress had only given me the one.
Jordan licked his lips, took a moment to compose his wind-up, and then made the pitch. “So, uhh, sweetie. You wanna lift home?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“What your intentions are.”
He leaned over, whispered, “You saw me staring earlier. Hell, who wasn’t? Every man in this room would give his left nut to spend an hour with your fine ass. I believe you’re clear on my intentions.”
Wow. What a sweet talker. How could I say no to such a fantastic offer?
“I’m clear on your intentions,” I said. “But are you clear on mine?”
“I have a suite a couple blocks away. No need to rush you home, is there?” He paused then added, “I tell you what. I’ll pour you another vodka or two when we get there, and we can talk.”
“We’re talking now.”
“It’s big and it’s private.”
He glanced at his crotch as he said the words, making me wonder if “it’s big” referred to something other than his place or if it referred to his place and the growing erection inside his pants. Either way, big was relative. It meant different things to different people. And big wasn’t always accompanied by talent.
“What do you say then?” he asked. “Should we go?”
“I’m fine here for a while.”
He trailed a finger up my arm. “You won’t regret it.”
His patience apparently spent, he winked, stood, held out a hand. Under most circumstances, I would have considered the gesture a courteous one. Not this time. I rose and faced him, wrapping a hand around his belt buckle. I yanked him forward, pressing his body against mine.
He laughed. “Hey now, you ... ahh ... I mean, maybe we should save all this pent-up energy until we get to my place, sweetie.”
I smirked, jammed a hand inside his pocket, fished out the wedding ring he’d concealed e
arlier. “What about your wife? Will she be joining in on the festivities too?”
His face paled, then warmed to a sharp, vibrant raspberry. “She’s ... it’s ... not what you think.”
“It isn’t? You’re not married then?”
“No, I am. It’s just ... complicated.”
“It always is with assholes like you, isn’t it?”
He stroked my hair with his hand. I bristled.
“Come on now,” he said. “Don’t ruin our night together.”
“I don’t sleep with married men.”
“You don’t understand. Things haven’t been the same between us lately. I’m not a bad guy. I just ... feel distant. We’re not close like we used to be. I don’t know if I’m still committed.”
It was a disgusting jumble of words from a man with no conscience, his eyes dead, without shine, like he’d strayed so far from the path he no longer knew how to find it.
“Married is married,” I said. “Period. When you married your wife you vowed to be there for her for better or worse. Not for when it feels good. Rationalizing something you’re unwilling to fight for shows me who you really are without even knowing you.”
Aware the midnight rendezvous was now a fleeting opportunity, his tone changed from vivacious and flirty to stern. “Give me back the ring.”
“Why, so you can shove it into your pocket and go for round two with someone else after I leave?”
“This isn’t funny, Lacey.”
“Good, Jordan, or whatever your name really is. It shouldn’t be.”
He swung for the ring and missed. I closed my hand around it and whipped it behind my head, tossing as far as it would go. Between the nineties rock music blaring in my ear, the crowd, and my increasingly blurred vision, it was hard to tell where it landed.
“You stupid bitch!” he seethed.
Instead of going after his ring, he directed his fury at me in the form of a balled-up fist. It connected with the edge of my jaw. A second later, as I fell to the ground, I caught a glimpse of Finch’s fist as it struck Jordan’s face, and he too went straight down.
CHAPTER 10
My body was weightless and numb, like a giant cloud floating through air. I opened my eyes, staring at the mirrored panels surrounding the square box that contained me. An elevator perhaps. Finch cradled me in his arms, which made me feel stupid and weak.
He looked down, gave me a sarcastic grin, and said, “After I get you back to the room, I’ll get some ice for your jaw.”
I nodded. At least I thought I nodded. My head was pounding too hard to be sure. “You can put me down now. I’m fine.”
Instead of complying with my request, he clutched me even tighter. “You might think you’re fine, but you’re not. A minute ago, you slapped my ass, said a few things I won’t repeat.”
No, I didn’t. Did I?
I rubbed a hand over my face, winced at the pain. “My chin hurts.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
“The guy I was talking to at the bar hit me, and then poof, you were there.”
He laughed.
“You got a standing O from everyone in the bar when you stood back up. You remember that?”
I shook my head. I remembered landing on the floor, remembered Finch’s fist smacking Jordan’s face, Jordan going down. Everything else was a blur, except for a slight memory of me muttering something to Finch about him being the horse and me being the rider. The ass-slap assertion was starting to make sense.
I didn’t need a rock to hide under.
I needed a crater.
“How did you ... I mean, I know I told you I was going to the bar downstairs. I even assumed you’d follow me. But I didn’t see you come in.”
“That was the point.”
“How long were you there?” I asked.
“The entire time.”
“You never came over to talk to me. Why not?”
“I figured whatever’s going on with you today, you wouldn’t talk to me about it, even if I asked. And I’d rather you told me about whatever it is when you’re sober. Besides, you did this same thing last year.”
“Did what?”
His forehead wrinkled as he looked at me, like he knew I knew exactly what he meant. “Binge drinking.”
“Drinking isn’t a crime.”
“I’d sure like to know what happened on this date that drives you to drink every year.”
“Doesn’t matter. The night’s over now, isn’t it? The clock resets. Three hundred sixty-five days to go.”
“Drinking to escape the demons in your past won’t change anything. Believe me. You’ll never get over it that way.”
I wasn’t trying to get over it. I was trying to get through it. I wouldn’t get over it no matter what I did. “She was so beautiful, Finch. I can still see her face, you know? Every curve of her lips, every expression, every freckle.”
“See whose face? Who’s the she you’re talking about?”
“Elena.”
“Who’s Elena?”
“She’s ... I mean, she was ...”
What was I doing?
What was I saying?
“No one,” I said. “She was no one. I’m drunk. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.”
Finch inserted the hotel card into the slot, using his back to nudge the door open. He walked to the bed, reached down, yanked the comforter toward the end of the bed, and set me down like I was made of porcelain.
“You need, uhh, any help with your clothes and stuff?”
I shook my head. “I can manage.”
I attempted to stand. Not a good idea. My legs wobbled like I was trying to balance my weight on a hoverboard, which was hard enough to do sober. I sat back down.
Finch glanced at me, shook his head. “Where are your night things?”
“My night things?”
He frowned, riffled through the dresser drawers. “It’s not funny. Stop laughing.”
“I’m not laughing.”
He handed me a T-shirt and pair of cotton leggings. “Yes, you are.”
I touched my lips. He was right. I was laughing. “I don’t get it. I only had three, maybe four shots.”
“Seven.”
“What?”
“You had seven.”
“Oh, wow. Seven. That’s a record for me.”
He turned. I lifted my shirt halfway, and the uncontrollable giggling started. “My shirt. It’s ... well, it’s stuck, Finch.”
He didn’t move, didn’t look back. “Try harder. You’ll get it.”
Try harder.
It felt like I’d slipped the armhole over my head, and my fingers weren’t coming to my aid either. Every time I tried to grab hold and tug the shirt down, I lost my grip. It was like my fingers were metal prongs, grappling at the stuffed cat I’d never win inside a toy machine.
“Finch, I need your help, and before you refuse again, you know how hard it is for me to ask for help when I need it.”
He arched back, looking at me with one eye half open. “How did you ... what are you ... never mind.”
He gripped the shirt, fixing it before sliding it over my head the right way.
I pulled off my jeans, flung them across the room, took the leggings he’d laid out for me and flung those too. It was too hot for pants. Much too hot.
He pulled the comforter over my chest, handed me a glass of water. I set the glass back on the bedside table without taking a sip, twisted his shirt, pulled him toward me. “You’re handsome, Finch. You know it?”
He pried my fingers off his shirt, set my hand back in my lap, and went for the water again. “You really need to drink this, Joss. Then you need to get some sleep.”
He walked over to a table in the corner of the room and sat down.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “You don’t need to sit there. I’ll drink the water. Go to bed. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“I don’t want you watching o
ver me. I’m not a child.”
“You’re acting like one.”
He sounded mad, which made me mad. “Are you listening? I don’t want you to be here. I’m the boss. You’re the employee.”
He crossed his arms in front of him. “I don’t care what you want right now.”
I wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol, the emotions I’d been dealing with all day, Finch seeing me at my worst, or the fact I wasn’t getting my way. The past twenty-four hours seeped in just enough to hit me hard. Embarrassed, I cocooned myself beneath the blanket.
“Joss, what’s wrong? Are you crying?”
I felt the warmth of his body next to me, his hand on my shoulder. I felt like a fool. I was his boss. This wasn’t right. “It’s nothing. Please, Finch. I need to be alone right now. Okay?”
“I know I said you should wait until you’re sober, but if you want to tell me what’s going on, I’ll listen.”
“No, you were right. I should wait.”
“Don’t you trust me enough to tell me?”
“It’s not about trust, Finch. Believe me.”
The silhouette of the moon shone through the window, casting a ray of light across his face. I poked my head over the blanket just enough to see his expression, a mixture of confusion and hurt. “Don’t be mad. Okay?”
He stood, tucking the comforter around me. “I’ll leave you alone. Knock on my door if you need me. Goodnight, Joss.”
CHAPTER 11
Elias Pratt
March 17, 1983
11:30 p.m.
Out of breath and panting like an overworked hound, Elias Pratt leaned against the kitchen cabinets, sliding down until his backside connected with the firmness of the vinyl floor. He propped the pistol he was holding over one knee, muzzle still pointed at Donald and Dorothy Hamilton, who were slumped over on the ground. Dead. At least, he assumed they were dead. They weren’t pleading for their lives anymore. Still, he wondered if he ought to plug them both one more time just to be sure.
For now, it could wait. The last several minutes had left him out of gas. Tired. He knew he needed to leave. He just needed a little breather first.
Elias hadn’t expected the murders of Donald and Dorothy to take as long as they had, but then, he hadn’t had time to plan it like he usually did. Hell, he hadn’t even decided on whether he’d kill Donald only or the both of them until after he’d arrived, when fate made the choice for him.
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