by Erin Healy
No black paint in sight.
Better yet, no one wielding a paintbrush.
Thank you, God.
She didn’t turn off the bathroom or hallway lights. She clicked on the only other living-room lamp and poked the knife into each side of the floor-to-ceiling curtains, which stayed open all the time. Cautiously lifting a slat at the far edge of the plastic mini-blinds, she peered out into the complex.
Her square Volvo was half in gravel, half on the drive, at a haphazard angle. The parking areas that wrapped around the building opposite hers were nearly full. Her mind reviewed her encounter with Ward. Had his car been in the lot? She didn’t remember seeing one. What was it he used to drive?
She couldn’t remember that either.
That Ward knew how to scare a girl.
She decided not to call 9-1-1. What would she report? The ruckus of police arriving would lead to questions she wasn’t prepared to answer. And she didn’t want Molly to worry.
Leaving the lights blazing, Lexi pulled a kitchen chair out into the hallway where she could see in all directions, dropped onto the seat with her worthless knife, and planned to stay awake until dawn.
{ chapter 3 }
The exposed bulb in the ceiling fixture backlit the black target on Lexi’s window. Warden Pavo leaned back against on the front bumper of the Volvo and examined his work from the outside. He tried to be subtle most of the time, but every once in a while someone came along who deserved theatrics. Someone like Lexi Grüggen Solomon, the last man standing, so to speak, in the Grüggen family. Ward had been dismantling them for decades, and now, after seven excruciating years in which he’d had to bide his time, the moment for his coup de grâce had arrived.
He saw the shocked movement of Lexi’s head and the jutting arches of her surprised brows when they rose above those cute little checked curtains. He congratulated himself for being in the right place when she lifted the slat of her living-room blinds to look for him, then dropped it. She couldn’t see him standing right in front of her eyes. Wasn’t that always the case?
Ward’s fingers were still wet with the tarry paint. He dragged them up his exposed forearm, leaving four trails like jailbird stripes on his pale skin. He used his thumb and forefinger to bend the lines, smearing them apart from each other into crooked bars. Maybe that would have been a better illustration for the parole notice he’d given Lexi: Norman Von Ruden, busted out.
He cocked his head and considered painting something like this on the sliding glass door in Lexi and Molly’s bedroom.
Fwack!
Warden swore and jerked upright off the bumper. His hand shot up to the back of his head where he’d been struck. By a rock, he figured. He snatched off his knit cap. Blood was running into the neck of his T-shirt.
An apple thunked onto the hood of the Volvo and rolled down, leaving a sticky trail. His fingertips came away from the injury sticky and smelling sweet. Juice, not blood, mingled with the smudged paint.
A voice he knew came out of the shadowy carport at the side of Lexi’s building.
“You should have called to let me know you were coming,” it accused. “I could have prepared a proper meal to welcome you.”
The figure that emerged from the darkness was not fit to be seen by moonlight. Craven was the most emaciated fellow Warden had ever known, though the creature fed endlessly on apples. He had lived at this complex longer than any other resident and used that fact to justify his disregard for good hygiene. His nails were greasy and his odor earthy. Warden had a strong stomach, but he had planned to steer clear of this stench.
“I hate baked fruit,” Warden said.
He shifted his foot, which connected with the apple that had rolled onto the ground and sent it like a missile toward Craven, who failed to anticipate the move. The fruit hit him hard enough that his head snapped back.
Yet even with his eyes closed, even with blood spurting from his nose, he caught the ricocheting red delicious in his open claw and flung the food back at Warden so fast that he could not see it.
But he could sense it.
He tilted his ear to his shoulder and felt the displaced air as the apple whizzed past his throat. With his forefinger, he wiped juice spray from his chin.
A draw, for now. Warden snickered and Craven joined with his own low laughter, wiping his bloody nose on the sleeve of his threadbare army field jacket, which was about ten sizes too big for him.
“What brings you, Ward?” Craven asked.
“It’s Warden to you.”
“Waaaard.”
Warden bristled. Craven sneered. “Your status as a jailer exists only in the black corners of your mind, Ward. Ward. Ward. Wardwardward.”
He withdrew another fruit from one of his pockets. Warden envisioned himself seizing the apple and cramming it into Craven’s jaws, then roasting him on a stick like the rodent that he was.
“So?” Craven asked.
“I’m back for Lexi Grüggen.” He had always preferred her maiden name. It was truer to her real self. She might think of herself as a Solomon, but that didn’t hide the facts of who she was and what she’d done.
“Ah.” He licked his cracked lips and examined the granny smith as if he hadn’t eaten all day. “What’re you willing to give me for her?”
“Give you?”
“She’s in my district.”
“Well she wasn’t when I started this job, so get over it.”
“Nah. I’d rather have a cut.”
“I’ll give you a cut. Right across your throat.”
Craven’s laugh was a snort. “Ten to one she’ll buck you. Again.”
“Your disrespect is going to get you killed one of these days.”
Craven bit into the apple’s flesh and talked around the food. “They keep saying that. But here I am. Make it twenty to one, you lose.”
“A hundred to one I’ll succeed,” Warden said.
“Stakes?”
“Your territories.”
Craven stopped chewing and looked up at his eyebrows.
“Mine are worth more than yours,” Warden said. “No need to calculate.”
“If they were worth more, you wouldn’t risk them for mine.”
“I’m not the one taking a risk. You’ve wanted a piece of my traffic for eons.”
“You’d like to think.”
“Do we have a deal or not?”
Craven hesitated. “You steer clear of Mort Weatherby while you’re here.”
“Who’s Mort Weatherby?”
Craven nodded at an apartment across the lot.
“I don’t have any interest in him,” Ward said.
“That’s never stopped you before.”
Warden grinned and leaned in toward Craven, getting a strong whiff of fruity sweetness mingled with sour clothing. “I’ll take him when I take your territories and kill you, fool.”
“We have a deal, then.”
Craven stupidly stuck out his hand and Warden gripped it in a sticky squeeze that crushed the guy’s knuckles. The tarry paint made a sizzling sound between their palms, then oozed out. A drop fell and hit the top of Warden’s shoe.
He looked down at it. Craven matched Warden’s grip and pulled, closing the small space between them.
“Friendly tip,” Craven said, lowering his voice to a covert whisper. His grotesque face was split by the grin of an adversary who thought he had the upper hand. Warden found the pretense tiresome. “The Grüggen girl has a sponsor.”
“As you said, that’s never stopped me before.” Warden slid his hand out of Craven’s easily and took pleasure in having dampened the impression his competitor had hoped to make. “In fact, if it’s true, all the more reason for you to stay out of our way.”
Craven wouldn’t stay out. Warden could anticipate this without any lying words being spoken. Rule one of this business: every man for himself.
Warden decided he would have to keep an eye on this one, as he had on so many others he had bested over t
he years. That suited him fine. Tension kept his mind sharp and served him well.
Further words, being pointless, were unnecessary. Craven skittered like a walking stick back into the shadows, likely to find more edibles.
Warden turned his attention back to Lexi’s apartment, which was ablaze with light, as if yellow beams begged the sun to rise early and meet them at the windows. Warden turned away. The light of the world would not come soon enough to prevent him from reducing Lexi to a sniveling mass of regret and bitterness. She would do anything he wanted.
Even if she did have a sponsor.
{ chapter 4 }
In Lexi’s dream, she fell.
In reality, her body spasmed and slid off one side of the chair, and then she was fully awake.
What had awakened her?
A door, closing.
Her head snapped toward the front door. Her arm leveled the knife at it.
There was no knife in her fist! Where was it? Lexi quick-scanned the floor but couldn’t see anything. She dropped to her knees, breathing hard, groping under the chair while keeping her eyes up, neck craned. He might come down on me from behind.
Who might?
Ward.
Her fingers closed on a serrated blade, which snagged her skin in the soft fold of the knuckle. Air stung the cut.
She finally found the handle and whirled with it, making a sweeping clockwise arc. On coming around, her wrist bone smashed into the cheap wood frame of the chair. The pain, tangible and immediate, restored her focus.
Nothing in the space was out of the ordinary, nothing but the sound of her own shaggy breath.
The room was empty. Sunlight had found its way through the down-turned slats of the blinds. What time was it?
What was the door she’d heard close? If that was not real, she’d go get herself a room near her dad’s at the Mental Health Assistance Residence.
A faucet squeaked. Pipes groaned. The shower. Gina was in the bathroom. Of course. Her Friday-morning classes started earlier than they did the rest of the week.
Lexi dropped back onto her fanny and exhaled, guessing it was nearly seven. Molly would head to school in about an hour. She would drag herself out from under the covers before she was fully awake, cook herself a bowl of oatmeal on the stove—
The kitchen. The target. Lexi got to her feet. She had to clean up the mess before Molly woke up. She glanced at the fingerprints that were smeared on the doorframe, but in the shifted lighting of morning she couldn’t see them. Hoping the paint was water-based, she decided to pull out the all-purpose cleaner.
She had the presence of mind to go look for her camera first, though. It would be a good idea to document the incident that she was about to scrub clean, especially if Ward continued to harass her into testifying on Norm’s behalf. Between now and deciding what she would ultimately have to do, anything could happen.
Her point-and-shoot was a low-quality digital thing that she had found at a garage sale. It was good enough for occasions when a camera was required— birthdays, school events—but not so good that she ever brought it out for more than that. If the batteries had life in them, she’d consider herself fortunate.
She found it in its dusty black case in the bottom cabinet of the living room hutch. Its battery still had half a charge. For once.
Lexi powered it up and studied the digital display while walking into the kitchen. Deflected light made the pale blue area gray. The question of how to take a picture of a window without overexposing the shot crossed her mind. This model didn’t give her much in the way of bells and whistles, and even if it had, she wouldn’t know how to use them. She’d try standing at an angle. Lifting the view finder to her eye, she framed the shot.
Then lowered the camera.
There was no target. No black paint. No spatters on the curtain or the counter.
Or the floor. The smudges from her shoes had vanished.
She heard water running. Not Gina’s shower, but closer. The kitchen faucet was still open, spilling water over the hollow tea kettle in the bottom of the sink.
Lexi reached out to shut down the tap.
The first thing that occurred to her was that she had been so exhausted the night before that her mind had fabricated every nonsensical event of the past twelve hours. What she really needed was a good sleep.
Challenging this notion, she walked to the trashcan that stood at the end of the kitchen counter. A wadded ball of linen paper topped off the half-full bin. She could see the red ink bleeding through the fibers.
Her second thought was that Gina had risen early and preempted Lexi’s cleanup efforts.
But why would her roommate bother? Lovely and loving though Gina was, she was only one dirty coffee cup away from being a slob. And if she’d ever go to such lengths to clean up, why would she erase the black paint but leave the spot of yellow cake batter there on the corner of the glass? That batter had escaped Molly’s hand mixer a year ago and hardened into cement, though Lexi made a mental note to scrape it off every time she saw it.
“Why’s there a chair in the middle of the hall?” Molly was up.
Lexi put the camera in the fruit bowl on the counter and tried to focus. For her child’s sake.
“Hey, little kitty.” She opened her arms and welcomed Molly into an easy embrace. Lexi ran her fingernails lightly down either side of Molly’s spine. Molly draped her arms around Lexi’s neck and made a purring sound.
Lexi thought of her daughter as a smaller, better version of herself. Molly’s brunette hair was thicker and shinier, her autumn-brown eyes kinder, her spirit warmer, her heart stronger. They had the same round face and short, athletic build, but Molly would one day become the woman Lexi could only aspire to be. Lexi believed this in the most private corner of her heart.
Molly’s pink kitty-cat jammies were two inches too short, and her heels hung off the back of her slippers. Lexi mentally went through her own pajama inventory for something that would fit her daughter. They lived on nineteen grand a year plus tips, or Lexi would have bought her new ones long ago. Grant had never paid child support, and Lexi had no expectation that he would.
She and Molly would find their own way. She’d read in Gina’s newspaper that Riverbend, the larger town half an hour down the mountainside, planned to open two new grocery stores in the next six months. She’d apply for work at both of them. A union job with higher pay, benefits, and a chance for advancement would make the half hour commute worthwhile. She might be able to work one job instead of two. Get better hours. Be home with Molly more often. Eat Molly’s dinner creations hot off the stove.
The possibilities were a sweet dream.
Molly hung off Lexi’s neck in a ten-second cat stretch, then shuffled across the kitchen to the cabinet.
“You okay?” Molly asked. She withdrew the round carton of oats and set it on the stovetop.
Lexi blinked. “Yeah. You sleep well?”
“Why’s the kitchen chair out in the hall? And why are you still in your uniform?”
An answer for either question eluded Lexi. “Long story. Did you get your homework done?”
“Affirmative, Maynard.” She got that from some TV show, Lexi thought.
“Ready for the big test today?”
“Affirmative. You want some of this?”
Lexi was ravenous but feared that eating anything then was a bad choice. “Thanks, sweetie, but I think I’ll have some of your spaghetti later.”
“Oh yeah. You’ll like that. I used extra basil.”
She went through the motions of filling her little pot with water, adding salt, waiting for it to boil. Lexi watched with her back to the window as if ignoring the target that wasn’t there would bring sense to its unreality. Molly found the red box of raisins but passed over the brown sugar. She rationed that stuff like she was Ma Ingalls on the prairie, knowing it was the first thing Lexi would cut when the grocery budget was strained.
This kitchen was her daughter’s domain. Her nin
e-year-old was a foodie. She’d bring home recipes from the newspapers her teacher discarded. At the library she’d go online and print out her daily five free pages, which she designated for homework assignments and Food Network ideas. She saved her meager allowance and periodically spent it on extravagant ingredients— pine nuts, hearts of palm, coconut milk—for special meals, which she tried out on her mother and Gina. Some were more tasty than others.
When Chuck let Lexi take home leftovers at the end of her shift, her coup sometimes felt anticlimactic. A bowl of mac’n’ cheese or box of chicken tenders never excited Molly like eggplant parmigiana.
Lexi loved that about her. One of many things.
Molly stirred the dry oatmeal into the simmering water.
“You should take a nap while I’m at school, Mom.”
“I look that tired, huh?”
“No, it’s just you don’t want to get sick or anything.”
“True. But I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to be to work’til four, right?”
Her tone told Lexi that the question she meant to ask wasn’t the one she voiced.
“Right.” Lexi retrieved the chair from the hall and pulled it up to the table. She sat. Her other job—stocking shelves at the grocery store—was only four mornings a week, Monday through Thursday, while Molly was in school.
Her daughter stirred the oatmeal and tilted her head to one side. Molly’s strong shoulders were pinched up toward her ears.
“I was thinking we could go rent a movie after school,” Lexi said. “Maybe something to watch together tomorrow morning.”
“We haven’t seen a movie in ages! Is Gobsmacked out yet?”
“We can check.”
“I want that one if it’s out.”
“Okay.”
“And I can make pancakes.” Her shoulders dropped an inch, and she glanced at Lexi for approval.
“Affirmative, Maynard.”