“No daughter of mine is going to set foot on a bus. Do you have any idea the kind of people who ride public transportation?”
“People who don’t own cars?” she’d dared to say to him once when she was about seventeen and hadn’t yet given up hope of getting a driver’s license someday. He’d nearly slapped her for her impertinence, and he hadn’t let her eat a bite of the dinner she’d made that night.
Hopefully this time he’d complain about the lack of food as usual and then decide it was safe to let her do the shopping—with Carl in tow, of course. Ugh. More time with Carl. Maybe starving was the better option. If she thought her father wouldn’t yell at her when there was nothing for dinner the following evening, she might have chanced it.
Returning to the table, she grabbed the salad—hardly touched—and carried it over to the sink. It seemed that neither she nor her father had been very hungry tonight. Her stomach was still in knots over the incident at the shooting range. What her father was upset about remained a mystery. Sarah supposed she ought to be concerned that he hadn’t been eating well for the past couple of weeks, but right now she was too angry with him—and too hurt and scared by his ultimatum that she couldn’t quit the undercover job—to be concerned with his health.
Trying to shake the feeling of uneasiness, Sarah glanced over her shoulder as she turned on the faucet. Through the space between the overhead cupboards and the counter, she saw her father dozing in his chair. If she were very lucky, he’d stay asleep the rest of the night.
She dumped the salad in the garbage then returned to the table to collect the plates and silverware. Trying to make as little noise as possible, she placed the silverware carefully in the sink. The paper plates she tossed in the trash. They’d never had a set of real dishes. Instead, her father bought paper products by the case at the local Costco every six months. She poured the rest of her milk down the drain and threw the cup away—their cups were all disposable too. She supposed the tradition had started back when her dad was on his own, then continued as he’d tried to juggle work with single parenting. And since she was on kitchen duty every night, she wasn’t about to complain about it.
With the kitchen clean, she switched off the light and headed down the short hall. Grocery shopping could wait until tomorrow. A night free from her father and Carl wasn’t to be wasted.
“Where you going, Sarah?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. Just three—more—steps to my room. “I’ve got a test to study for,” she called over her shoulder.
“Not tonight, you don’t. You’re working.”
“What?” Sarah turned around to face her father, shock and dismay clearly visible on her face. “It’s Thursday. I never work on Thursdays.” The stern look on her father’s face told her it was hopeless to argue. “Is this some kind of punishment because I told you how much I want to quit?”
“I’m trying to make things easier,” he said, nodding to a bag near the front door. “I thought a different beat and disguise might make working more—bearable.”
Sarah forced herself to walk to the door and retrieve the bag. Under scrutiny of her father’s gaze, she pulled out a pair of worn, grungy jeans. Her brow wrinkled in confusion while her nose wrinkled in distaste.
Her father leaned forward in his chair. “Take the rest of it out.”
She pulled a large black sweatshirt from the bag, followed by a pair of battered sneakers. A puke green knit cap finished the ensemble.
“Well?” Grant asked.
“They’re . . . different.” Disgusting.
“That’s the point. It’s different from anything you’ve ever worn before. There’s also a box of hair dye at the bottom of the bag. I want you to use that too, and put your hair in two braids. It’ll be a better disguise than that rat’s nest of a wig you’ve been wearing.”
“I’ve never colored my hair before. I thought you said I had to leave it natural.”
“It’ll be back to natural soon enough—the dye is just temporary. Now hurry. Carl will be here in forty minutes. He’ll drop you off five blocks from your job. You’ll carry a Glock with you—that’s why the sweatshirt is extra large.”
The knots in her stomach multiplied. He was serious about her carrying a gun.
“Hurry up. Go.” Grant shooed her down the hall with a wave of his hand.
Reluctantly Sarah went into the bathroom and shut the door. She sat on the edge of the tub as she read the instructions for the hair dye, wondering if the red would really wash out. She stood up and looked in the mirror, pulled the rubber band free from her ponytail, and shook out her hair. What I really need is a new hairstyle, she thought glumly. But her father always insisted on long and plain. He said anything else might attract unwanted attention.
Sighing, she donned the disposable gloves, mixed the solution, and squirted the foul-smelling liquid all over her head. When it was rubbed in as much as possible, she picked up the bag of clothes and went to her room. Glancing at her cat clock, she noted how many minutes she had to wait until she could rinse her hair.
Taking a folder from her backpack, she pulled out the prints Jay had bought and sat on her bed and shuffled through them, remembering each moment at the museum when she’d stood in front of the real paintings. When she came to Mrs. Israel Thorndike, she paused a little longer, remembering how she’d been aware of Jay looking at her instead of the painting. And she’d known, if she had only turned her head, what kind of look she would have caught in his eyes. It baffled her.
Perhaps the idea of taking her out had started on a bet—or a joke between him and the dancers he knew. But if so, something had changed last Friday. She would bet now that he was serious when he said he wanted to see her again.
But why?
She wished she knew, wished there was some way to find out. Because when Jay looked at her, it didn’t creep her out, which was the way she felt around Carl—like prey being tracked by a predator. Being around Jay was nice, comfortable. Not the comfortable she felt around Reverend Daniels and the Ladies’ Aid women who were always so kind to her, but a more interesting kind of comfortable—friendly.
A wistful smile touched her lips as she placed the prints back in the folder. With some effort, she forced thoughts of Jay and friendship to the far corner of her mind and hurried to get ready.
Grimacing, she pulled the jeans and sneakers from the bag. No doubt these things had come from some secondhand store. She tried not to think about someone else’s skin touching the fabric, another person’s feet wearing the shoes. She took a can of Lysol from her shelf and sprayed the pants, shirt, and shoes inside and out. When she finished, she was coughing, and her nose burned with the antiseptic smell.
Kills ninety-nine percent of germs, she told herself as she dressed quickly, saving the shirt until after she’d rinsed and braided her hair. But she was already counting the hours until she could shower tonight.
Thirty-eight minutes after her father had sent her to get ready, she emerged in full costume. Over the years she’d also learned not to be late.
“I’m ready,” she announced as she walked into the living room. Her father was in the chair where she’d left him.
“You look good,” he said. “You’ll fit right in with the crowd.”
“What crowd?” Sarah asked warily.
“College students mostly. It’s a much safer beat than you’ve had. These rave parties are becoming popular—and a real concern. We’ve got to get a handle on them before they grow too much. You feel better in that getup?”
She nodded. Aside from being grossed out about who the outfit’s previous owners might have been, she did feel better. Gone were the plunging neckline, too-short skirt, and dreaded heels. She didn’t miss the itchy wig either, though her hair felt like straw and she was worried the dye wouldn’t wash out as easily as the box promised. “It’s better. Thanks.”
He nodded and cleared his throat. “Come here so I can tell you what’s up with this group. There’s been an
infusion of drugs around the university lately. We think a new dealer is moving in and—”
“Cambridge?” Sarah said bleakly. “You want me to work near the university? Isn’t that out of your jurisdiction?”
“Yes and no. There are several cities working together on this. The more we cooperate with each other, the better chance we have of getting the stuff off the street. But you’ll still be in Summerfield. There are a couple of clubs . . .”
Sarah focused as her father explained her assignment and showed her the pictures of the contacts. Only after her gun was secured beneath her sweatshirt, the cash was stuffed in the front pocket of her jeans, and she’d climbed into Carl’s old truck did she finally allow her mind to wander again.
Ignoring Carl’s suggestion that she scoot closer, she leaned her head against the passenger window, welcoming the cold that both kept her awake and renewed her sense of longing for escape. Feeling as trapped as if she were behind bars, Sarah pressed her fingers to the glass, wishing she were on the other side. The night was dark and cloudy, and she felt gloom descending. Letting the cold seal off her emotions, she prepared to do the job she hated.
Chapter Ten
With several grocery bags in each hand, Jay kicked the door shut behind him and headed for the compact galley kitchen in their apartment. Entering the narrow space, he saw Trish sitting on the far counter beside the sink, her arms wrapped around Archer, who stood in front of her. Eyes closed, she murmured something unintelligible as she leaned forward, covering his lips with hers.
Doing his best to ignore the two of them, Jay set the bags on the floor and opened the fridge. He began shuffling things around—mostly moldy and green—making room for the food he’d bought.
“Do you mind?” Archer asked, pulling away from Trish long enough to send Jay a look of annoyance. “We’re trying to have a moment of privacy here.”
“Sure. I’ll just let my milk curdle while you two go at it.” Jay tossed a container of take-out Chinese toward the trash and continued putting his food away.
“Excellent—you bought milk.” Mike sauntered into the kitchen, pajamas pants flapping, though it was well past noon. “Did ya get some cereal to go with it?” He grabbed the carton from Jay, popped it open, and began to chug.
“Hey,” Jay said. “That’s not—”
“Cookies! Even better.” Mike wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then reached down, snagging a package of Double Stuf Oreos from one of the bags.
Jay took both from him. “My milk. My cookies.”
“But we’re roomies. We’re supposed to share.”
“I share all the time,” Jay said. “Tell me what you’ve contributed to this kitchen lately—besides dirty dishes.”
Mike scratched his head, causing his case of bed head to worsen. “I ordered pizza in September.”
“It’s almost Halloween,” Jay reminded him.
“Trish and I are having a moment here,” Archer snapped. He stepped away from Trish and walked toward them. “Take your Oreos and your argument elsewhere. I was here first.”
“This is the kitchen, Arch.” Both Jay and Mike spoke at the same time.
“You can’t expect us to stay out of here,” Jay finished.
“It’s all right.” Trish came up behind Archer and put her arms around him. “I’ve got to get home to study anyhow. Come over at seven, okay?”
“Okay.” Archer looked sullen as he turned to give her a quick kiss.
“And you two should come to the Halloween party at our sorority,” Trish said to Jay and Mike. “It’s next Friday—the twenty-eighth. Everyone’s invited. But you have to come in costume.”
Archer hauled Trish up against his side. “We’re going as Robin Hood and Maid Marian. I’m taking the bow out of storage.” His free arm drew back as he shot an imaginary arrow.
Jay raised his eyebrows. “Original. Who’d have guessed?”
“What kind of food did you say there would be?” Mike leaned over, peering into one of the open grocery bags.
Jay nudged it out of his reach. “Find your own breakfast.”
“Well, I gotta go. Bye, Arch.” Trish left the kitchen, waggling her fingers at him.
“See ya,” Archer said.
“Later,” Mike mumbled.
“Good luck with your test tomorrow,” Jay called.
As soon as the door closed behind Trish, Archer turned to Jay with a scowl. “What test?”
“Economics.” Jay set a block of cheese in the fridge door, wondering as he did if it would still be there tomorrow. “She’s really worried about it.”
“How come she told you instead of me?”
Jay shrugged. “Maybe because I ask her about stuff like that. If you’d give her a chance to do something else with her lips once in a while . . .”
Archer grinned, his good humor suddenly restored. “Why would I want to do that?” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Come to think of it, why would I want to hear about some stupid econ test? No. I’ve got things right.”
“Speaking of things that aren’t right—there’s a bunch of rotting food in here that belongs to you guys. You gonna clean it out sometime soon?”
“It’s not mine,” Mike said, raising his hands as he backed away from the fridge. “I haven’t bought groceries in weeks.”
“No kidding,” Jay muttered. “Arch? Any of this stuff yours?”
Archer stepped closer to the fridge, bending over to peer inside. “Yeah, probably. But I don’t need it. Trish feeds me almost every night.”
“Sounds like a pretty sweet deal,” Mike said. “She have any available roommates?”
“None you’d want to look at.” Archer grimaced and gave an exaggerated shudder.
Figuring it would take more energy to coax someone else into cleaning the refrigerator than it would to do the job himself, Jay pulled the trash can closer and started dumping things in it. The crisper yielded two black bananas, a small bunch of grapes that used to be green but were now growing some kind of fungus, and a shriveled-up apple that resembled a shrunken head.
The shelves were worse. Jay held his breath as he threw away two slices of hard, stiff pizza—likely from the box that Mike had ordered a month ago—a bowl of hairy raviolis, and a reeking package of mystery meat, still in the white paper wrap from the butcher. As the latter dropped into the trash with a resounding thud, Archer sprang forward.
“Hey, whatcha doing? That’s my moose.” He reached into the can, pulling the package from the garbage.
“Whoa.” Mike grabbed a dishtowel from the counter and covered his face.
“Your moose?” Jay closed the refrigerator and stood in front of it. No way that thing was going back in there.
“Yeah. I shot it with my bow.” Oblivious to the odor, Archer stroked the package tenderly. “For high school graduation my dad took me hunting in Alaska. I shot this giant moose. It was sweet.”
“Arch, you’re in your second year of college. You’ve had that meat—”
“It was in the freezer until recently, and it’s aging,” Archer said defensively. “This is the last package. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”
“That occasion’s now,” Jay said, holding up the trash can. “Give it up before someone gets hurt.”
“Really. I’m about to pass out from the smell.” Still holding the towel over his face, Mike edged toward the door.
“I’ll take it to Trish’s tonight and have her fix it.” Archer moved toward the fridge.
Jay stood his ground, folding both arms across his chest. “If the smell doesn’t get her, the first bite will kill you both. Throw it away.”
Archer looked down at the package in his hands. Mike left the kitchen as Trish returned.
“Arch, my car won’t start. Can you come jump it for me? Eew.” She pinched her nose. “What’s that awful smell?”
“Told you,” Jay said.
“It’s my moose,” Archer said, looking hurt. He glanced at Trish. �
�I thought you got a new battery.”
“I was going to, but they said the old one was fine. Maybe you could come with me this time. I don’t know anything about cars, and—”
“Ah, Trish. Not now. You know I’ve got a ton of homework.”
Since when? Jay wondered. He’d hardly seen Archer crack a book in the last few weeks. For a journalism major, he seemed to have an extreme lack of required reading and writing. “Did they check the alternator?” Jay asked. Being careful to keep his position in front of the fridge, he began gathering the empty grocery bags from the floor.
Trish shook her head. “What’s that?”
“A lot of times the battery will run down quickly if the alternator is going bad. Come on, Arch. Let’s take a look at it.” Jay shoved the bags in an overflowing drawer and turned toward the door. Archer stood still, continuing to stare at the package in his hands.
“Think you could cook up this meat, Trish?”
No, Jay mouthed to her, shaking his head.
“I—uh. I could try,” Trish said without enthusiasm. “But not unless I can get home.” She walked into the kitchen, took a bag from the drawer, and held it open in front of Archer.
He dropped the package of moose meat inside. “Great. Seven, then?”
Trish nodded and looked away. Her eyes were beginning to water.
When Archer went to the sink to wash his hands, she sent a pleading glance in Jay’s direction. “Will you come look at my car?”
“Sure.” Jay followed her to the door, waiting for Archer. “Aren’t you coming? You know more about cars than I do.”
Archer hesitated, then finally trotted along behind. The three left the apartment and went down the stairs to the street. Archer pulled his keys out of his pocket and went to get his car from the back parking lot.
Trish was parked in front of their house, and she already had her hood up and the jumper cables on the front seat.
“How will I know if it’s the alternator?” she asked.
“The battery will continue to die because it isn’t getting charged. Once we get your car started, you should take the alternator in and have it tested. When’s the last time you had your car in for any kind of service?” Jay opened the passenger door and took out the cables.
All The Stars In Heaven Page 7