Bree turned toward her bedroom window in time to see several small pebbles bounce off the outside of the glass. Tap. Tap.
John! Bree threw open the window. Below, on the gravel path next to her house, was her best friend.
“Hey!” he said as soon as she poked out her head. “I got your text. Tried to call but it went straight to voice mail. Are you okay? Are you out for good? And who the hell was that douche at the front door?”
Bree held her finger to her lips—apparently, Olaf’s superpower was excellent hearing—and pointed toward the servants’ entrance at the back of the house. With any luck, Olaf hadn’t thought of that yet.
John gave her a thumbs-up and headed around to the backyard. Now all Bree had to do was get there too.
She tiptoed across her room and cracked the bedroom door a fraction of an inch, just enough to see that the hallway wasn’t blocked by two hundred pounds of muscle. She listened intently for the sound of his mouth breathing; then, emboldened by the lack of noise, she swung the door open enough to stick her head into the hallway.
A quick sweep from left to right showed her that the coast was clear.
Bree was down the stairs in a heartbeat, through the laundry room to the back entrance. She yanked the door open and saw John’s beaming face.
“I wasn’t sure if I should—” he started, but Bree tackled him before he could finish, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck.
John stumbled from the force of impact, carrying her with him into the backyard. Almost instantly, an alarm blared. “Warning!” an electronic voice cried from the security pad next to the door. “Perimeter breach. Rear exit. Warning! Perimeter breach. Rear exit.” Rinse, repeat.
“What the hell is that?” John said, still holding Bree’s weight in his arms.
She slid down his body, until her toes touched the hard concrete. Pulling up the leg of her pajama pants, she saw a red light blinking on her anklet.
“Son of a bitch,” she said, pointing at it. “They’ve hooked up the GPS on my anklet to the home security system.” So much for one hundred meters. Someone wanted to make sure she couldn’t leave the house at all.
“Damn,” John said. She felt his arm slip around her waist and pull her close. “I’m sorry.”
“Warning! Perimeter breach.”
“Oh, shut up!” Bree cried in frustration. As if on cue, the alarm switched off and Olaf appeared in the doorway.
“No visitors,” he said, a broken record. “Olaf—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bree interrupted. “Olaf following orders. I get it.”
John leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Is this guy for real?”
“He comes with the parole.” Bree sighed as she gazed up at John. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you again.”
“You’ll see me again.”
“Promise?”
John’s hazel eyes sparkled with mischief, as he sung a line from one of Bree’s favorite songs. “And if I had to walk the world, I’d make you fall for me. I promise you, I promise you I will.”
“Now!” Olaf barked.
Bree turned to go inside, then suddenly realized she had the messenger she’d been hoping for. She thought of her near-death experience on the way home from juvie, of the seat belt buckle that had clearly been tampered with. If Christopher had been behind it, she needed to warn the girls, and John was her best chance. She flew back to him, arms wrapped tightly around his neck. “I need you to deliver a message,” she whispered.
“Huh?” John asked.
“Olaf carry you now.” She felt Olaf’s meaty hands on her shoulders, but held tight to John for one more second.
“Tell Olivia Hayes that he’s not done with us.”
Then Bree released John, and watched him stare at her in confusion while Olaf dragged her into the house.
TEN
ED CHECKED THE ADDRESS ON HIS PHONE FOR THE BAZILLIONTH time, then looked around the desolate alley. It was like something out of a postapocalyptic sci-fi movie. A single light cast eerie shadows across the trash-strewn, semi-abandoned industrial neighborhood, a mix of boarded-up warehouses and gated repo lots that, according to Ed’s cinematic expertise, meant it was a breeding ground for zombies, vampires, or homicidal motorcycle gangs.
Really? This was where the notorious DGM made their secret headquarters? He had a difficult time imagining Olivia picking her way down the broken pavement in heels.
He hurried to the next building, squinting to read the address. This is it. A large storehouse marked “Custom Furniture and Imports.” He shoved his phone back into his pocket and lifted his hand to knock on the door when he paused.
In the distance, he distinctly heard the sound of footsteps.
It was just a light patter, like shoes crunching across the gravel of broken pavement, but as he stood frozen at the door, eyes straining against the darkness, everything seemed deathly still.
Great. All this DGM crap was starting to make him paranoid.
He turned quickly back to the door and knocked.
“Who is it?” Kitty asked from the other side.
Ed rolled his eyes. “Jack the Ripper. Who do you think it is?”
There was a pause, then the sound of scraping metal as Kitty threw a bolt and the heavy door inched open. “Could you be any louder?” she asked as Ed slipped inside. The words were sharp but Ed noticed that both her voice and her body were relaxed. “You probably woke up the whole neighborhood.”
Ed snorted. “Who, the rats? Or the homeless guy shantied up in the alley?”
Kitty heaved the door closed and threw the bolt. “You’re hilarious.”
“I try.”
Ed followed Kitty as she snaked around dining room tables and bureaus, armoires and princess beds, all in various stages of construction. In the back of the warehouse, an unfinished table was positioned under a bank of fluorescent lights in a small clearing amid the furniture. Several mismatched antique chairs had been arranged in a semicircle, one of which contained Olivia, who was examining her face in a compact.
Olivia looked up, smiling brightly. “At least I wasn’t the last one here.”
“For once,” Kitty said under her breath.
“I’m not always late,” Olivia said, snapping the compact shut.
Kitty half-smiled. “Oh really? Name one time before this that you weren’t the last one here.”
“Um . . .” Olivia jutted out her chin. “Okay, fine. But I blame public transportation.”
“What is this,” Ed asked, “teatime? Can we get this show on the road? I have things to see and people to do.”
Kitty’s eyebrow shot up. “Don’t you mean things to do and people to see?”
Ed settled into a chair. “No. No, I do not.”
“Okay,” Kitty said slowly, missing the joke. She leaned against the table, gripping the edge with her fingers. “Who’s first?”
Olivia raised her hand. “Oooh, me! Me!”
Kitty laughed. “Miss Hayes?”
Olivia stood up, like a teacher’s pet, and clasped her hands in front of her. “Today I learned—”
Click.
“Shh!” Ed held up his hand, his senses immediately on alert. This time, he was positive he’d heard something. A snap, like two pieces of wood lightly knocked together, followed by what he thought once again might be footsteps.
“What is it?” Olivia whispered.
Ed waited, searching for any sign of movement in the darkened recesses of the warehouse, then shook his head. Was he going crazy? “I thought I . . .” His voice trailed off and he sniffed at the air. “Do you smell smoke?”
Before Kitty or Olivia could respond, the back corner of the warehouse erupted in flames.
It looked like it happened in slow motion: one minute it was completely dark except for the lights above them, the next, the south wall was on fire. The warehouse was like a tinderbox—the unfinished wooden furniture crackled as the blaze jumped from cabinet to armoire to dresser. Ton
gues of orange and yellow flames raced along the floor as if they were following a track, igniting everything in their path.
Kitty leaped into action. “Grab your stuff!” she yelled. She whipped her duffel bag off the floor and hauled a stunned Olivia to her feet, practically tossing her into Ed’s arms. “Head for the door.”
“What’s happening?” Olivia cried, clutching her purse to her chest.
Ed pulled his backpack over his shoulders. “I think the warehouse is on fire.”
“Move!” Kitty barked.
Ed grabbed Olivia by the hand and dragged her toward the metal door through which he’d entered just minutes before. The interior was already heavy with smoke, and he could feel the heat of the fire in every breath. He glanced over his shoulder at the south end of the warehouse, now completely engulfed in flames. How had the fire moved that quickly? And how did it start? Furniture doesn’t spontaneously combust.
Just as they reached the door, the sprinkler system kicked in, dousing the interior with water. But it was like trying to use a garden hose against a forest fire—the water sizzled to steam as the inferno blazed forth.
The metal door was already hot to the touch. Ed pulled the sleeves of his jacket over his hands and leaned all of his weight against the sliding metal bar that locked the door from the inside. Beside him, Olivia was doubled over, coughing uncontrollably as more and more oxygen was consumed by the flames. He felt his chest seize up, his nose and throat seared from the heat of the air that was becoming more impossible to breathe with each passing second. Ed strained against the metal bar as he gasped for air, but his knees buckled and his body sank to the floor.
Suddenly, a rush of cool air swept over him; Ed opened his mouth and let it fill his lungs. He felt a strong arm around his waist, dragging him to his feet. He stumbled forward, his sneakers crunching against the gravelly surface of the alley. He could still feel the heat of the fire against his skin, but it was growing less intense by the second. Ten steps, twenty. The arm let him go and he collapsed on the ground.
“Thank you, officer,” Ed panted. Thank God the fire department got there so fast.
Kitty coughed, and slapped him on the back. “That was me saving your ass, idiot.”
Ed pushed himself to his feet. “Oh.”
In the distance, they heard the scream of a siren.
“We could have died in there,” Olivia whimpered. Tears were flowing down her cheeks, creating shiny trails through the soot and ash that stained her face.
“We could have been killed,” Kitty said. Her voice was tight.
“That’s what I said.” Olivia wiped her nose.
“No,” Kitty said softly. “It’s very, very different.”
Ed whipped his head around at the ominous tone in Kitty’s voice. She was staring at the facade of the warehouse, glowing bright orange from the force of the flames inside. Ed followed her gaze and his body went rigid.
Letters glowed on the exterior of the wall, growing brighter as the heat from within intensified. Ed could just make out the words as the flames began to eat away the wall.
I’m back.
ELEVEN
BREE SLOUCHED ON THE SOFA IN THE MEDIA ROOM, ABSENTLY clicking through stations. Why was morning television so terrible? Her choices seemed to be news, sports news, talk shows, soap operas, or guessing whose Showcase Showdown estimate came closest without going over. She switched the television off and flopped onto her stomach. House arrest was even more boring than juvie.
The doorbell rang, its harsh electronic peal so jarring that Bree practically fell off the sofa. She pushed herself up on her elbows and glanced at the grandfather clock. Nine o’clock in the morning? Who could possibly be coming to see her mom at that hour?
Bree waited several seconds to see if Olaf the Gorilla would open the door, but apparently it was too early for him as well. The doorbell rang again, and Bree reluctantly rolled off the sofa and shuffled down the hall.
She opened the door, but instead of the Avon lady or a Jesus pamphlet, she was greeted by Sergeant Callahan.
“Good morning,” he said with a nod.
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s good to see you too, Bree.”
“No visitors!” Olaf’s booming voice filled the foyer. Bree turned and saw the blond god leaning over the banister, wrapped in one of her mom’s silk kimonos. “Olaf has orders.”
“Good morning,” Sergeant Callahan said, shouldering his way past Bree into the house. “Is Mrs. Deringer available?”
“Mrs. Deringer not up yet,” Olaf said. He gripped the belt of his undersized kimono, as if trying to make sure it didn’t fall off. Yeah, that was the last thing Bree needed to see.
“Can you let her know that Sergeant Callahan is here to interview Bree?”
“Again?” Bree said.
Sergeant Callahan ignored her. “And that I’ll need her to be present.”
Olaf grunted, which Bree assumed was some kind of affirmation, and lumbered down the hall.
Bree stood with her hand on the open door, a clear signal that she planned to be as uncooperative as possible.
“You can close the door, Bree,” he said with a tight smile. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Bree shrugged and pushed the front door with the tip of her index finger. It swung silently, then clicked into place.
“Is there someplace we can talk?” he asked, amazingly calm.
Again, without a word, Bree sauntered down the hall, unhurried and uninterested, and turned into her dad’s study. She dropped into an oversize leather chair and swung both legs over the tufted arm, easing back into a reclining position while she twirled a strand of her hair.
“You realize this isn’t helping you, right? Your continued silence?”
Actually, it’s the only thing that’s helping me.
“I’m hoping your mother will be able to talk some sense into you.”
You don’t know my mother.
“Before this entire situation gets out of hand. There are a great many people pressuring the DA’s office to charge you as an adult.”
Bree continued to twirl her hair.
“And I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”
Exasperation. She could hear it in his voice. Could she possibly push him over the edge? It was worth a try. She turned and looked directly at Sergeant Callahan. “If you had any real evidence,” she said, flashing him a big, shit-eating grin, “you’d have charged me by now.”
Sergeant Callahan shot to his feet. “Goddammit!”
Bree turned back to the wall. She’d finally gotten a rise out of him, but it was a hollow victory. She was in a dangerous position, and she knew it. If they didn’t find the real killer, even without any evidence against her, the DA’s office might push through to a trial.
He paced the room. “Is everything a joke to you? This is serious, Bree. Two people are dead. There’s a girl in a coma that may or may not be related. Arson in the warehouse district that may or may not be related . . .”
Bree sat straight up. The girl in a coma was Margot, she was sure, the first real news she’d had of her friend. But it was the second statement that made her stomach drop. “The warehouse district?” It couldn’t be Kitty’s uncle’s place, could it?
Sergeant Callahan eyed her sharply. “Yeah,” he said, his voice back to its polished smoothness.
“Was . . .” Bree swallowed. “Was anyone there at the time?”
“No,” he said, slowly shaking his head. “It was empty.”
Bree’s mind raced as Sergeant Callahan continued to watch her. It could just be a coincidence, right? There were a lot of warehouses in that area, most of which were abandoned. Probably just some squatters trying to keep warm.
Or maybe it was Christopher.
Were Kitty and Olivia okay? Sergeant Callahan said there was no one in the warehouse, but that only meant no one he found. Maybe Kitty and Olivia had been there for a meeting and managed to get out bef
ore the fire department arrived. Dammit, she needed more information. Was this meant as a warning or had Christopher tried to kill her friends?
Bree eyed the policeman. Maybe she should tell him the truth? He was right: two people were dead and Margot was, apparently, in a coma. If the warehouse fire and the sabotaged seat belt were related, maybe it was better to tell the police before someone else got hurt.
“You know,” Sergeant Callahan said, leaning closer to her as if he was about to share with her the third secret of Fátima, “if you tell me what you know, it’ll go better for you. We can cut you a deal, make sure you get off with just a slap on the wrist. You weren’t really to blame, were you, Bree? Someone else had to be involved. . . .”
Bree stiffened. She was an idiot for thinking he was on their side. Sergeant Callahan wasn’t going to listen to her about Christopher. He was just looking for the quick fix, for Bree to snitch on her friends to save herself.
Over my dead body.
She shrugged and turned away. “I hope you find the guy.”
“Darling!” Bree’s mom swept into the room before Sergeant Callahan could respond. She was wearing the same kimono Olaf had just sported. Bree cringed, wondering what, if anything, Olaf had on now. Her mom took Sergeant Callahan’s hands in hers and kissed him on both cheeks. “It’s been ages.”
“You look wonderful, Diana.” And he meant it too. His eyes traced every line of her mom’s body.
Barf.
Her mom winked, then swirled into an armchair, patting the ottoman next to her for Sergeant Callahan. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
“I wish I was here under more favorable circumstances,” he said, lowering himself to the ottoman like a courtier paying homage to the queen. “But it’s about your daughter.”
“Bree?”
Bree smacked her forehead. As if her mom had another daughter.
“Er, yes,” Sergeant Callahan said.
She leaned in to him. “Is she in a great deal of trouble?”
“She might be.”
Bree’s mom gasped, her hand flying to her throat. “Oh no! My poor sweet baby girl!” Her voice shook, her eyes welled up, and Bree had to turn away to keep from laughing out loud.
Get Dirty (Don't Get Mad Book 2) Page 5