by Angie Sandro
Gabriella pushes the mug across the table and sits. “Enough about my problems. What’s going on with you? Did I tell you earlier how awful you look?”
“If you’re appealing to my vanity to distract me from the current topic of conversation, it won’t work. How do you plan to pay your bills until you find a new job?”
“I told you it won’t be a problem. Quit worrying about me and focus on yourself. Have you been sleeping? You look like a raccoon on meth.”
I scowl at the image. “Sleeping is my problem. Frankly, I’ve had it with the whole process. Whoever said people need to sleep anyway?”
“Oh ho, someone’s cranky pants. A full night’s rest is important. It keeps you from biting your best friend’s head off. Now stop deflecting and tell me what’s going on.”
I pour a dollop of cream into my cup of Earl Gray. “Fine, I’ll share, but you’ll think I’m nuts.” I take a sip of tea and sigh. Warmth spreads through my chest, filling me with a false sense of peace. “Okay, so, I’ve had some pretty freaky nightmares ever since the night o’ terror. Which I could handle. But last night…I sleepwalked.” Her face blanches. “Yeah, not cool. I woke up in the middle of the street.”
Gabriella grabs my hand and squeezes. “Do you remember how you got outside?”
“Nope, nada. One moment I’m snug in my bed, and the next, I’m in my nightgown about to get squished by Detective Anders’s car.”
“Ooh, Detective Anders.” Gabriella giggles. “I bet he was surprised. Were you wearing sexy lingerie?”
“If you call a flannel nightgown sexy. Anyway, he was very polite. He helped me back inside since I was sort of in shock. Then he used my weakness to grill me about another murder. A burned corpse was found a couple blocks from here. I could practically read Anders’s mind, ‘Crazy girl wandering the streets, minus an alibi, with a connection to a previous murder.’ I’m surprised he didn’t arrest me on the spot.”
“He can’t think you’re involved. You were in the alley talking to me. If I hadn’t begged for a ride, you would’ve been safe at home. This is all my fault,” she concludes in a wail.
I didn’t know she felt guilty about my attack. None of what happened is her fault. “Gabby, don’t—”
Gabriella slams her hand down on the table hard enough to slop my tea. “Don’t ‘Gabby’ me! It won’t change how I feel. And to think Detective Anders would harass you after all you’ve been through. He’s so hot. But I guess he’s also as big a creep as you’ve told me.”
“Bigger,” I agree with a slight growl, preferring her anger to guilt. Anger fits my mood. I can channel it into something constructive. Anders is hot, and the fact that his touch brings heat to places I thought would never warm again confuses the hell out of me. The man thinks I’m a murderer. And the person who probably killed those men. The guy in the alley—well, I’m drawn to him on a deeper level. Spiritual versus Physical, two keys which can unlock my heart, if I let down my guard. Time to be proactive and triple deadbolt my feelings before I end up getting hurt. “Okay, we’re agreed,” I say. “So what do we do to clear my name?”
A cloud covers Gabriella’s eyes. “Huh?”
“I won’t let Anders railroad me into taking the fall for some serial killer.”
Gabriella shoves to her feet. Her dark eyes harden to obsidian. “You’re right! I knew I got fired from Pet Plus for a reason. This is fate.” She rises and heads to the door. “I’ll be back with my things.”
Fired? “Wait, did you say things?” I call after her retreating back, but I’ve reacted too late. Events around Gabriella move at warp speed. Once she gets an idea in her head, she runs with it. We’re a lot alike in this way.
The door slams shut behind her, leaving me alone with my thoughts. But not for long. Gabriella returns an hour later with two large suitcases. I’m still sitting at the table where she left me. Sure, I moved a few times to go to the bathroom and refill the kettle, but for the most part, I’m slumped in the chair, staring out the kitchen window while trying to figure out how to fix the complications in my life.
“What’s all this?” I push the chair back and stand. When I stretch, a loud crack resounds through the room as my back pops back into alignment. Muscles I didn’t know existed ripple beneath my skin.
Gabriella rolls a suitcase in my direction, and I lift it over my shoulder in a smooth motion. “Been working out?” Her eyebrow quirks as she studies me like a prized bull.
“Nah, I’m hyped on the caffeine.” I nod to the empty kettle. “This is my third pot.”
She sighs. “Just like I thought. You need my help, mamacita. I’m moving in with you for a while. I can’t pay my bills without a job. My car really isn’t big enough to live out of, and I refuse to go home and grovel at my mother’s feet for money. You’ve met her. Can you imagine how much pleasure she’d derive from blackmailing me into dating one of her friends’ rich sons, or making me clean her house for an allowance?”
“The indignity of it all,” I drawl, tapping my foot.
She nods, not catching the sarcasm. “Help me carry these bags to the spare bedroom then go shower, ’cause you smell a little ripe. After you’re human again, we’ll come up with a plan to clear your name.”
A little ripe? I sniff the pit of my upraised arm. Ugh. Did I smell this bad last night? If so, Anders earned some major points in his favor by pretending he didn’t notice my stench. Then again, he’s trying to frame me for murder—he doesn’t deserve points. He probably decided he’d get more information if he didn’t piss me off by telling me I stink.
After helping Gabriella move her luggage upstairs, I retreat to the master bathroom and take a long, scorching-hot shower. I scrub my filthy body with apricot body wash. My hair’s already confined in a long braid. Since I don’t plan on leaving the house, I leave it alone. I don’t have the energy to fight the springy curls.
Gabriella’s right. The side effects of not sleeping are startling. I press a fingertip to the bruise at the corner of my eye. The purple has faded to yellow, which somehow brings out flecks of gold in the ring of emerald circling the iris. Sure, it looks kind of pretty, but keeping my eye that color means I have to punch myself in the face every morning. Maybe eye shadow will also do the trick.
Wait, duh—both eyes hold gold flecks. I lean forward, inspecting my face with a frown. What the hell? How does getting stabbed change blue eyes to green and gold? Or give the iris a catlike appearance? My brain races a mile a minute, cataloguing each feature. Nothing else appears unusual. I dodged a genetic bullet by inheriting high cheekbones set in a heart-shaped face from Pepper. She still brags about being voted prom queen four years in a row. The red hair came from Dad. It was passed down through the generations from Gerard Savoie’s Irish mom. Mala’s got the same red in her hair. My blue eyes were the same as my grandmother’s, until they changed. The dimples set in the corner of my mouth when I smile, or scowl—well, those are my own.
While I’ve never been able to tan without burning, my skin looks like the sun hasn’t touched it in years. Even my freckles have faded. I’m not exactly pleased about this; it took years for me to accept them as a unique part of what makes me, me. Freckles are part of my identity. Who the hell am I now?
Or rather, what am I becoming?
The stupid headache I can’t get rid of flares, stabbing between my eyes and reminding me I have a concussion. Dizzy, I sit on the edge of the tub and rub my eyelids. Maybe getting knocked in the head changed my eye color.
“Whatever. Just add this to your list of unusual symptoms to tell Estrada about at your check-up,” I tell my reflection.
After pulling on a navy hooded sweatshirt, black sweat pants, and a pair of black Uggs, I feel human again. I consider taking out my makeup case, but the dull throb behind my eyes makes the effort too great. Even if every whisk of the mascara brush or swipe of lipstick feels like I’m giving the finger to Dad. He never let me wear makeup, like “some kind of whore.” Even though he’s d
ead, I still enjoy my petty rebellions.
My mood lifts as I traipse downstairs. A male voice comes from the kitchen, and I miss a step. My butt hits the stair, and I bounce down the last two steps.
Gabriella runs out of the kitchen, followed by Asshole of the Year, Charles Frasier, my two-timing ex. “Dena, are you all right?” She squats down at my side, patting my cheeks like she doesn’t see me staring at her in horror. “Talk to me—tell me where you’re hurt.”
My mouth opens, then shuts on a high squeak. No matter how hard I try, I can’t form a sentence without cursing. Charles hovers over her shoulder, watching me with false concern on his scrunched, beetle-like face.
“G-gah…” I grab her hand and squeeze until she shuts up. “I’m fine. Get off me.”
I roll onto my knees and use the stair railing to pull myself upright, clinging to the banister to keep from going for Charles’s throat. I want to wrap my fingers around his scrawny neck and wring it like a chicken. I’ve been blindsided. It takes a couple of minutes to regain control over my raging emotions, but once I push aside my desire to choke him out, I look him over.
After we broke up, he wisely avoided being in the same room with me. It’s been almost four months since I last saw Charles—thank God! He visited me in the hospital after I woke from the coma. I did not look my best, and given the circumstances of our breakup, I wanted to look hot the first time he saw me again, not skeletal and atrophied with part of my head shaved.
A rush of spiteful pleasure almost makes me laugh aloud. He’s gained about ten pounds since we were together. His sandy brown hair also looks a little thin, probably from living with Vanessa. That shrew would make anyone’s hair fall out. “Hey, Charles, what are you doing here?” It takes a huge effort to say the words in a polite tone.
“Gabriella told me about your problem and asked if I could come over and help,” he says with a slight smile.
He’s studying me as well. If I’d known he was coming over, I would’ve combed my hair and put on a little makeup to remind him of what he lost out on after he screwed his way out of my life. Then his words penetrate. I glance at Gabriella. “Help with my problem?”
Gabriella nods.
I grab her arm and drag her up the stairs. “Excuse us. We’ll be back in a moment,” I tell Charles, voice strangled.
I shove Gabriella into my bedroom and slam the door.
“Hey,” she protests, rubbing her arm. I’ve left red marks. “What’s the matter with you?”
“What’s the matter with me? Are you insane?” I shake with pent-up fury. “I can’t believe you invited Charles over here. You told him about my problem…Charles? How could you do this to me?”
Gabriella’s eyes narrow. “Get a grip. I’m trying to help you.”
“By inviting Charles Frasier over? How is that going to help anything? He’s my arch-nemesis.”
“I thought Detective Anders was your arch-nemesis?” She puts her hands on her hips.
“He is, too,” I sputter. “They’re both equally arch-neme-si.”
Gabriella shakes her head. Her black hair matches the darkness gathering in her eyes. “You can’t have two arch-nemeses. That’s against the rules. You’ll have to decide on one, and frankly, I’d think the one trying to fry you for mur…der would be the better choice.”
She’s right. “But Charles? Of all the people to ask for help, why him? Why not Mala?” I pinch the bridge of my nose, breathing hard. “God, Gabby, he betrayed me. I don’t want anything to do with him.”
“Suck it up, Dena.” Her voice has turned sharp; it cuts into me with each word. “We need an informant…a patsy.”
“A patsy. What does that word even mean?”
“Charles is someone who can feed us information. I called Mala first, but she said she and Landry are going to New Orleans to do some digging into Anders’s background. She’s the one who suggested I call Charles, since he’s on the inside.”
“He’s not a cop. He’s a public safely officer. How is he going to help—tow the bad guy’s car for parking in a handicapped spot?”
“Geez, Dena; you dated the guy for a year. Don’t you know anything about his job? He has access to police files. He’s already gathered up information on the case.” She shrugs. “Lose the pride. He feels guilty about the way he treated you. We can use him to find out what Anders has on you.” Determination fills her eyes. She’s got my back.
“You’re sure this will work?”
“Hell, yes. Now go downstairs and make nice.”
“There’s a limit, Gabriella.” I wonder if I’ve reached mine.
CHAPTER 7
Arch-neme-si to the Rescue
Charles has made himself at home in the kitchen. He even figured out where Pepper hid her booze, ’cause he’d poured himself a rum and coke and was bent over a laptop on the table in front of him. When I enter the room, he smiles, and it’s like a punch in the gut. This is what attracted me to him. He smiles from the center of his being, and it lights up the room with his joy. Warmth floods my body, and my own grin comes out of hiding. Thank goodness, Vanessa didn’t ruin that smile.
“I guess my being here was a shock?” He tips his chin in Gabriella’s direction. “I told her this wasn’t a good idea, but once I found out what was going on, I had to help.”
Oddly, pleasure sparks at his words. He always seemed like such a nice guy. Vanessa must’ve dabbled in some wicked mojo to get him to cheat. The witch!
“It was a surprise,” I say, “but I’m glad you came. I need all the help I can get. Gabriella filled you in on my problem?”
Charles nods. The corners of his eyes tilt downward, and I sigh. His sad puppy eyes always send a shaft of pain through my heart. “I was on duty the night you were attacked. That’s the reason…um” —he blushes—“Vanessa chose to party with the girls that night. When I heard you were being taken to the hospital, I wanted to stop by and see how you were doing. Vanessa convinced me that I was the last person you’d want to see.”
Wow, Vanessa’s smarter than I thought. “Thanks for the concern.” I sit across the table from Charles and let Gabriella sit at the head since she appears to be the one running this show. “What have you guys come up with?”
Gabriella reaches for the Captain Morgan and pours us drinks. “Charles, you work with Detective Anders. What kind of person is he?”
Charles frowns. “Well, we don’t socialize. From what I’ve heard, the other deputies respect him, but they’re also intimidated by him. He works the graveyard shift. Keeps to himself.”
Makes sense to me given his appalling social skills. No wonder there isn’t any gossip about him around town. “Any talk about why he moved to our tiny parish Sheriff’s Office? Must be quite a pay cut, and let’s be honest: not much happens around here.”
“I heard in New Orleans, he took the gruesome murder cases—the career breakers. But he’s good. His record for solving heinous crimes was pretty high.” Charles runs a fingertip around the rim of his glass. “I don’t know why he left, but supposedly some bad shit went down on his last case. It messed him up pretty bad. This is all hearsay, so don’t quote me on it.”
“You sound like you admire him,” I say.
“What’s not to admire? He’s the youngest detective on staff. He’s good at his job and survived shit that would’ve broken lesser men.”
I decide to leave the hero worship alone. “Okay, so what do you know about my case?”
Charles taps a key, opening a file, then turns the screen in our direction. “After Gabriella’s call, I downloaded the case file. It isn’t complete since I didn’t have time to get the hard copies. If anyone finds out, I’ll get in a lot of trouble. Don’t make me regret helping you.” He stares hard at me for a long, uncomfortable moment before continuing. “There have been five deaths. All the deceased are male. All had criminal records—mostly for crimes against persons.”
“So they were bad guys?” Gabriella clarifies quickly. “No
t that I think anyone deserves to die by immolation.” She looks at the screen, and her nose crinkles as she studies the picture of a victim. “Ew, that’s totally gross!”
Charles shifts his eyes from the laptop. His face turns a bit splotchy. “This is the dirt bag who attacked Dena, Albert Tolson.” He scrolls to a mug shot, and I shiver. He has the same dead eyes in the picture as he did in person. “Tolson did a long stretch in prison for sexually assaulting a couple of college students. When he was paroled in 2008, he was supposed to register as a sex offender, but dropped off the radar for years. The warrant was still active in NCIC.”
“Yikes, a really bad guy.” Gabriella lets out a heavy sigh. “You got lucky, Dee.”
I rub my arms, feeling like I’ll never warm up. It’s terrifying to think how things could’ve gone a lot worse for me.
Charles gives me a sympathetic smile and continues, “According to the coroner, all the victims’ skins were exposed to some sort of ‘unidentifiable’ agent. This substance initially burned the epidermal layer of the skin. Once the victims inhaled the substance, their internal organs liquefied, fueling their internal temperatures until their bodies cooked from the inside out.”
He meets my eyes. “One of the reasons why Anders is so interested in you is that the doctor found traces of this substance on your skin.”
“On my skin?” I lean forward to study his face. Surely he’s joking. “I didn’t have any burns.”
“No, you didn’t. In fact, according to your medical report, upon admittance to the hospital you were almost dead from blood loss, but had no blood trace on your body except where it soaked into your shirt. Someone cleaned you off and left traces of the same substance used to kill your attacker on your skin. Only instead of burning you…it healed you.”