Sole Witness

by Jenn Black

“Alien Spacecraft Terrorizes Town, Impregnating Women,” blared across the top. The side column proclaimed, “Giant Yeti Returns to Vegas.”

  He picked it up and stared at the cover.

  The Weekly World News. Unbelievable. Lori hated that paper. Said it was a waste of trees. Which meant… which meant… She’d bought it for him because she liked him, too.

  Wanted to surprise him. Make him happy.

  Davis threw the paper back onto the bed and rubbed his temples.

  Despite their argument in the hallway, he’d been the one to underestimate her. If it weren’t for his big mouth, they could be in here making love.

  Ah, hell.

  * * *

  Lori blew her nose and stared at herself in the steam-edged mirror.

  Even discounting her puffy eyes and splotchy cheeks, she knew her features weren’t truly beautiful.

  Cheekbones too pronounced, nose a little skinny, uneven eyebrows, one ear sticking out further than the other. Her confidence is what sold her, her agent had admitted. Men wanted to be with a confident woman, and women wanted to be one.

  What had gone wrong?

  Granted, she hadn’t been confident. She’d been scared. Terrified. All she’d wanted was Davis, positive he’d make her feel better.

  Instead, she was humiliated. Rejected. Unwanted.

  Had she been too clingy? Too needy? Or was the root of the problem more fundamental than that? Maybe one taste of her had been all he’d needed to remind himself that he’d never wanted her to begin with.

  After all, he’d dumped her quick enough for Juliana Ross, cheerleader extraordinaire.

  She’d thought it wouldn’t last. That Davis would break it off with Juliana any moment and they’d get back together to live happily ever after. But that February, he hadn’t sent her a Valentine. He’d sent her a damn Save the Date card.

  Ripped the date right out of her calendar is what she did.

  Lori turned from her tortured reflection and picked up her clothes, dressing quickly. She opened the bathroom door a few inches and peeked through the crack. No Davis.

  Maybe she’d been wrong about him from the start.

  He really might prefer to have a society-type girl on his arm, one with fake hair, fake nails, fake boobs, and fake friends. Lori could never be that for him. She bit her nails too much for them to do much growing.

  And once her hair went gray, she planned to leave it that way. Who cared what the neighbors said.

  She eased the door open a little further and stepped out into the hallway.

  The bedroom light shone through the crack under the door. That’s fine. She didn’t want anything in that bedroom. Not the bed, and not Davis. She’d been stupid to think he felt for her even a fraction of what she felt for him.

  Picking his suit jacket up from the floor, Lori trudged into the kitchen. She tossed his jacket over one of the barstools and got a pot of coffee going.

  What she really needed was a glass of wine. Maybe a bottle. Even better, some chocolate. She should’ve bought some at the convenience store, rather than that stupid newspaper.

  Lori halfheartedly searched through the kitchen, opening and closing cabinet doors and peering inside. No wine. No chocolate. Barely any coffee mugs. Definitely a bachelor pad.

  She poured herself a cup of coffee and nearly came out of her skin when Davis appeared behind her and touched the small of her back.

  “Want a cup?” she asked, hoping he wouldn’t notice the uncertainty in her voice.

  His eyes were inscrutable. “I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

  She shrugged. “It’s your coffee.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Is emotion-free sex really what you want? Some kind of fling?”

  If that’s all she could have, then yes. She’d take what she could get for as long as it lasted, no matter how selfish that might be.

  His suit jacked clattered to the hardwood floor, saving her from responding.

  Davis picked it up and rummaged in the pockets, a rueful smile on his face. He presented her with a loose fist, palm down. “Hold out your hand and close your eyes.”

  Lori obeyed, feeling like a child again but enjoying the moment. He placed something small into her hand. Something round and a little scratchy. Something that smelled like… chocolate? Her eyes flew open and she burst out laughing.

  “A Cadbury egg?”

  His smile faltered. “They’re not your favorite anymore?”

  “No, they are, they are. Thank you. It’s just what I wanted.”

  Davis shifted his weight. “Don’t thank me,” he said gruffly. “Department can’t get in a decent sandwich, but they take their Easter candy very seriously. That’s your tax dollars, hard at work.”

  Lori reached out a tentative hand to pat his shoulder and Davis pulled her into his arms.

  “You were the one who got away, you know,” he whispered, looking her in the eye.

  “I didn’t get away. You dumped me for a cheerleader,” she reminded him, but somehow the old hurt was gone. “If you keep bringing me chocolate, maybe I’ll forgive you.”

  “I would like that,” he answered, something very important and urgent in his voice. “I was an idiot back then. A clueless teenage boy.”

  “Not any more. Too bad it can’t work out,” Lori said with a sad smile.

  “Can’t it?” he asked, his gaze intense.

  Lori opened her mouth to answer but his lips were on hers before she could respond.

  “I may be a cop and I may be an idiot,” he whispered against her mouth, “but I’m also a man. I don’t know why I thought I could resist you.”

  Although not exactly the love words she’d hoped for, Lori returned his kisses with fervor. Maybe Davis was here because he was horny, and maybe he’d forget her as soon as she was out of his sight.

  But right now, she didn’t care.

  He enveloped her in his arms and devoured her with drugging kisses.

  Lori wasn’t sure they’d make it to the bedroom.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Davis didn’t want to open his eyes.

  Lori lay draped across his chest, one leg over his with her head resting on his shoulder. He couldn’t imagine a more perfect way to start the morning.

  He slid out of bed without waking her and turned off his alarm clock, so as not to disturb her. He showered and dressed and frowned at his watch. Part of him couldn’t wait to be on the road, tracking down Amber Tompkins.

  Another part of him wanted to linger here, snuggling under the covers and simply looking at Lori while she slept. Feeling foolish, he snuck back into the bedroom for one final glimpse of her before he left for work.

  Arms outflung, she arched her body in catlike stretches, kicking off the covers in the process. She opened her eyes, caught his gaze, and smiled.

  “Morning, Davis. I was just thinking about you.”

  “You were?” His pants twitched in response.

  “I was. Tell me, have you ever thought about being a sketch artist instead of a cop?”

  Davis’s romantic thoughts vanished. “A what?”

  “A sketch artist. For the police. I was just thinking about how many crazies you must run into every day out on the street. Seems like a sketch artist would perform a critical skill in a safer environment. Just as important, less dangerous.”

  Davis took a step backward. What on earth brought this on?

  Two nights in bed and already she wanted to change him, improve him, fix him? Make him someone other than who he was?

  “I don’t draw anymore,” he lied. “That’s a stupid idea.”

  Rather than look offended, Lori shrugged and rolled out of bed. “Oh yeah? Then what’s this?”

  He trailed behind as she padded into the living room and snatched his black leather portfolio from behind the couch.

  She flipped open the catch and all his portraits scattered across the floor, the faces he’d hoped to forget staring at him with hurt and accusation.
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  Those feverish drawings hadn’t been for anyone but himself.

  They were meant to excise his demons, to somehow ease the dreams that plagued him at night when a case dragged on for too long and leads led nowhere.

  “It’s nothing,” he snapped. “You shouldn’t be poking your nose in my things.”

  “No?” she scoffed, waving the sketch of a small child in his face. “Don’t lie to me. These people are real. You could help them.”

  For the love of God, he’d tried to help them.

  If she thought that being a sketch artist instead of a detective would somehow help him, make him softer and happier, then she had no idea what it meant to be a cop, how it felt to bring the bad news to a new wife or to hide from a grieving couple that he’d run out of hope for tracking their stolen child.

  “Follow your own dreams,” he said instead. “You want to open some sort of agency? Then open your damn agency and quit telling other people how to run their lives. Start selling yourself instead of your body.”

  Lori straightened indignantly. “I’m not selling my body.”

  “You’re not?” He raked his gaze mockingly along her still-nude form.

  She reeled backward as if slapped.

  “The key difference is that a prostitute lets the buyer use the inside of her body. I get paid just for letting people look at the outside of mine. I make no apologies for taking advantage of our capitalistic society and shallow culture, and you should make no apologies for your artistic talent.”

  “You don’t understand anything about it,” Davis answered, bending to scoop up handfuls of sketches. He crumpled one in his fist and Lori slapped it out of his hand.

  “Don’t be infantile.”

  She smoothed out the wrinkles and stacked the papers back into the portfolio as if his entire police career hadn’t been splattered across the floor.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” Davis muttered, hating the childish petulance in his voice.

  He stalked into the kitchen, seized his jacket, and threw open the door. He needed some space.

  “Just think about it,” she called out from the living room as he clamored down the stairs.

  Yeah, right.

  If all she wanted to do was run his life and make him into someone he didn’t want to be, then what he’d think about was getting her out of his house and back out of his life for good.

  The sooner, the better.

  * * *

  Amber woke up smiling.

  Lumpy pillows and musty smell aside, this ratty motel had engendered her new favorite dream: Lori Summers choking out her last breath with Amber’s fingers clenched around her skinny little neck.

  Still smirking, Amber swung out of bed and strode over to the mold-crusted bathtub.

  She flipped on the bare light bulb in time to see a palmetto bug the size of her thumb scuttle across the sink and disappear behind the stack of scratchy towels.

  Despite the beautiful dream, this dumpy roach motel was clearly a rung or twelve below her usual haunt—crashing at the condo of one of her boy toys.

  However.

  Stupid though they might be, Amber couldn’t risk them flipping on the tube after a bounce on the mattress only to discover her face plastered over the news. Especially with the unfortunate tagline from the newspapers. Homicidal Maniac. Please.

  Homicidal, sure. Who wasn’t?

  But ‘maniacal’? Hardly. How typical of the sensationalism prevalent in today’s news media. Next thing you know, they’ll be claiming she was a religious fanatic, on a hate crime sanctioned by Jesus, sent here to slaughter supermodels for their slutty ways.

  Morons.

  Amber showered and dressed and then packed up all her things. She’d made her decision last night. No more mistakes. Come hell or high water, Lori Summers died today.

  Okay, worst case scenario.

  What if she were merely wounded, but not mortally so?

  No. Unacceptable. Amber had already made her reservation at the all-inclusive Cancun resort Castillos for tomorrow night.

  No, death would come a-knocking this very morning. Now.

  But how was she going to lure Little Miss Scaredy Pants out of her birdcage? Amber could hardly waltz up the stairs and ring the doorbell like a freaking Mary Kay lady.

  Summers was stupid, sure, but presumably not that stupid.

  A cigarette between her teeth, Amber drove out of the parking lot without paying for her room. She’d shared it with at least seven other critters. Let one of them pick up the tab.

  First things first. In order to make a fast getaway after the murder, she needed a getaway car. Too bad she was stuck with her conspicuous Camry. Nothing to do about it now. She’d swap it with something right after she blasted a hole through the model’s pretty little forehead.

  In order to make a getaway that got very far, she’d need gasoline.

  Right now, the meter hovered around E. Not good. She couldn’t make it to the beach house on fumes.

  Amber pulled the car into the shadiest gas station she could find.

  No sense getting an attendant who spoke enough English to read the paper or kept abreast of breaking news on the television. The last thing she needed were the cops on her tail, less than twenty miles from her victim’s crappy little beach house.

  She parked at a pump and walked inside.

  Cigarettes, lottery tickets, two dusty aisles. She squinted at the attendant. What was he, Indian? Pakistani? Damn. His vocabulary was probably better than hers. Probably read the freaking newspaper, too.

  No matter. She was already inside and time was a-wasting.

  On impulse, Amber cruised down the aisles, not sure at first what she was looking for. Then she saw them. Sitting there, innocuous, in all their cherry-red plastic glory.

  Gas cans.

  Bet little Sassypants Summers would come tearing out of that house if it, well, spontaneously caught on fire. And if the runway princess stayed inside to boil and bake like a big pan of ziti, then who cared?

  Dead was dead.

  Amber picked up all three of the red gallon containers and brought them to the counter.

  “These, a soft pack of Virginia Slims, and twenty bucks on pump four.”

  The attendant shook his head. “You’re wasting your time with that, you know.”

  Please don’t be a Chatty Cathy. “With what?”

  “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you look like a nice enough lady. Today’s Friday, right? Tail end of Spring Break season. After this weekend, gas prices are going to come back down.”

  He looked at her expectantly, but all Amber could do was grind her teeth behind a forced smile.

  “I’m not saying they’re artificially high right now,” he hurried to add. “I’m just saying there’s no sense stockpiling spare gas until at least Monday.”

  He gave her a conspiratorial wink.

  Amber would’ve plugged him with a bullet right there if she didn’t need him to authorize the damn pump so she could get the hell out of there.

  “Just… ring me up,” she ground out.

  He threw up both palms and turned to the register, as if affronted. Screw him and his tender feelings. She had business to take care of.

  Practically snarling, Amber snatched up her change without letting him count it back to her. She stalked out the door, juggling the big plastic containers as best she could.

  Deliver her from nice people.

  Back at the Camry, she popped the trunk and carefully placed each container inside once she filled them. After she closed the lid, she leaned against the side of the car as she pumped gas into the tank.

  Her cell phone rang from somewhere deep inside her purse.

  Amber fished it out and shoved it between her ear and her shoulder, forgetting to check the caller ID.

  “What?” she growled.

  “Amber, honey, it’s me, George. Where did you go yesterday? I fixed you your coffee, just how you like it, and I went through all th
e doughnuts with a plastic fork. Was cinnamon okay? I brought you cinnamon, but you were gone.”

  “Something came up. Listen, George, I gotta go.”

  “And then this morning, you were on TV. Your name, anyway, and this really terrible photo of you. They said you’d been dating T2. Were you really, Amber? You told me you weren’t dating anybody. I thought you were going to date me.”

  Was this guy for real?

  He asks her about doughnuts before he asks her about the latest newsflash, and he was too consumed by jealousy to register the part about Tommy Turner being dead, for Christ’s sake?

  She had to get outta this state. Floridians were freaking crazy.

  “Miss! Miss!”

  One hand clutching the pump handle while the other balanced her phone against her ear, Amber turned in time to see the cashier racing from the convenience store.

  What now?

  “Miss! Hang up the phone! You can’t use electronic devices while pumping gas. Didn’t you read the sign? You could blow up the whole place!”

  No, she hadn’t read the sign, and she didn’t need to read it to know he was an idiot. Didn’t he watch Mythbusters on the Discovery Channel like the rest of America?

  Amber snatched the phone from her ear without replying to George.

  “That’s an urban legend, you moron,” she called back and hurled the phone toward him.

  With a satisfying crack, it shattered two feet in front of him, sending shards of plastic and chunks of electronic miscellany skating across the lot.

  The attendant stood stock still, stupefied.

  The pump clicked and Amber hung up the handle before closing the gas cap and crossing to the driver door of the Camry. For Christ’s sake, you’d think she was out here juggling cherry bombs.

  The cashier found his voice.

  “That’s assault! That’s assault, you lunatic! I’m calling the cops!”

  Amber started the engine. She rolled down the passenger side window as she turned the car toward the exit lane and extracted her Glock from her purse.

  “No, this is assault, you hyperactive pea brain,” she muttered and leveled the barrel at his head.

  He screamed like a girl and ran around the side of the building.

  She rolled her eyes and set the gun back down on the seat without firing.