by Erin Huss
"I've been better," I said.
Chase heaved an I'm-too-tired-and-stressed-to-ask-why-you-were-riding-in-a-car-with-your-baby-daddy-last-night sigh.
I kissed him before he mustered the energy to inquire. He reached for my neck and pulled me up by my waist until I was on my tiptoes. His lips parted, and our tongues met. He tasted like Chase. Sweet, sexy, strong, loving, Chase. And I felt breathless, in a good way this time.
We parted, and he went back to fighting crime. I wiped my nose and my eyes and rubbed my chest, all the while wondering if I had the stamina required for a love triangle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
See also: Target
"What an odd day," Tom said as he lowered himself to the couch.
"Odd? Try terrible." I was on the floor with gloves on, scrubbing pee stains out of the carpet. Like I'd been doing since Lilly went to bed. "Do they make diapers for dogs? I've seen Harold with a diaper on. If they make them for birds, they have to have them for other animals. Right?"
"Why don't you take him outside every twenty minutes to see if he has to pee so he knows that's where to go?"
"Because I'd look like a complete hypocrite. No dogs allowed. I can't give anyone here any more ammunition to move." Heaven knew they had enough. "He needs to pee over there." I pointed to the rental magazines sprawled out across the kitchen floor. Munch preferred carpet.
I coughed into my shoulder and sprayed Munch's latest deposit with cleaner and let it soak. "Looks like your Rent or Run page is down," Tom said, staring at his phone.
"Finally!" I peeled the gloves off my hands and checked.
I'd received an email earlier from the admins at Rent or Run dot com and another from Yelp informing me our account had been frozen due to suspicious activity. Suspicious being the 5,000 one-star reviews left by loyal Jessica Wilders' fans.
Five thousand!
Which was roughly the same number of messages my mother had left on the office line.
Munch's little ears perked, and he barked at the wall. "Calm down, buddy." Tom rubbed his back. "There's nothing there." Munch settled beside Tom and resumed chewing on the Barbie he'd been working on for the last hour, which was better than my kitchen table. He'd already gnawed on one leg.
I rose to my knees. "You two seem to have bonded."
Tom patted Munch's head. "He's a good dog."
"You should keep him," I said.
"I don't know if I could handle a dog."
"Too much of a commitment for you."
"Ouch." Tom rubbed his heart.
"Speaking of commitment issues, I have a question for you. What was the original plan for last night? Lilly said you had an evil sparkle with lots of people to play with. I get the play, but what was the sparkle?"
"I had a present for you."
"And?"
"And…look, you're famous." Tom pointed the remote control to the television.
Guess we're moving on?
I turned to watch the television. Michelle M. Mitchell, Southern California's iconic channel 7 newscaster, sat behind her desk with a blue blazer on, her dark hair teased into a helmet and a picture of Jessica and Lance on the screen behind her. "Breaking news in the Ghost Confidential Murders. Shanna Roberts, a resident at this Los Angeles apartment complex…"
They cut to video of my apartment building with the yellow tape flapping in the strong wind. Had I known it was going to appear on national news, I would have had the fascia painted.
"…was taken in for questioning earlier today. According to our sources, Roberts is the half sister of Jessica Wilders." They cut to a picture of Amy's headshot.
Oh hell.
"Amy Montgomery, known for her roll as sultry medium Page Harrison on the hit show Ghost Confidential, is also a tenant at the same building. Police recovered numerous items belonging to Wilders from Montgomery's apartment." They cut to video of Amy crying from an episode two weeks ago when Page Harrison found her boyfriend cheating on her with a zombie. "A spokesperson for Amy Montgomery released the following statement. 'Ms. Montgomery had absolutely no involvement in the murders and is cooperating with the investigation. The police have yet to comment, but according to online blogger Dirty Dan, Montgomery's home was searched earlier, and the police recovered incriminating evidence from her vehicle.'"
Dirty Dan was annoying.
They cut to a picture of Jessica Wilders walking the red carpet at last year's Emmy Awards. She had on a silver dress with a plunging neckline, and a plunging backline, and a slit up to her hip. Like Edward Scissorhands designed it. They cut to a picture of Lance Holstrom at the Emmy's. He had on a purple velvet suit with a satin lapel. Like Barney designed it. "Sources close to Wilders and Holstrom say that Roberts had been jealous of her half-sister's success and had recently confronted Wilders at a fundraiser, where she was escorted away by security."
They cut to a video taken from a cell phone. Jessica and Lance were standing on a platform with their arms around an old lady who had a little dog on a leash. The old woman stepped down, and Shanna walked up holding Munch and the cat. Jessica's face fell, and she said something through gritted teeth before she called for security. The person taking the video made the comment, "What a diva."
Back to Michelle M. Mitchell. "Wilders' and Holstrom's camps have released a joint statement. 'We're indebted to the LAPD for their quick response and incredible attention to detail. All we want is justice for Jessica, Lance, and Zahra.' We're going live now to Skip Waters, who is at the scene. Skip?"
They cut to Skip, who was standing on our front lawn with the address visible behind him. Great.
"Thank you, Michelle. I'm standing here at the apartment complex where Shanna Roberts, Jessica Wilders' sister, lived. I have with me a neighbor and friend of Ms. Roberts." The camera zoomed out, and there beside him was Silvia Kravitz and Harold. I watched with one eye open, scared of what she was about to say.
"Were you surprised to hear about Shanna Roberts?" Skip held the microphone below Silvia's mouth, and Harold pecked at it.
Silvia tugged her robe closed. "Yes, I am. Quite frankly we should take into consideration that she has not been officially charged with anything yet. As far as I knew, she was an up-and-coming actress."
"Did she ever mention Jessica Wilders?" Skip asked.
"Not that I can recall. She did say she didn't like the show Ghost Confidential, but I don't either. It's terribly loud and disturbs my parrot."
Harold turned his backside to the camera and pooped down the front of Silvia's nightie.
"You have a little something…" Skip pointed to the green goop down Silvia's chest. Harold didn't like Skip's close proximity and flew into Skip's face. Skip yelped, his hair fell off his bald head, and he stumbled out of the shot. Silvia cocked her head and smiled into the camera. Her robe slipped off her shoulder, and a blurry dot covered her chest.
They cut back to Michelle at the news table. She sat gawking into the camera until an off-screen voice said psssstttt to get her attention. She rolled her shoulders and cleared her throat. "We will return after these messages."
I yanked the remote away from Tom and hit Mute. "That's it. I'm never renting another apartment again…why are you laughing?"
"Because that was hilarious." He doubled over. "Did you see Skip's face when the bird attacked?"
OK, that was kind of funny.
"And the bird crapped down her front, and she didn't even notice."
OK, that was also kind of funny. "He eats crackers out of her cleavage too. They're very close," I added.
Tom gave me a look of disbelief. "This place needs its own reality show."
"I think I'd rather stay away from cameras for now." I tossed the remote back to Tom. It sailed over his head and crashed against the wall.
What part of the brain was in charge of coordination? 'Cause mine was busted.
First my phone and now the remote.
"That's it! Today is officially over. I'm done. I need to take a shower and
go to bed. When are you going home, by the way?"
Tom put Munch on his lap and scratched behind his ears. "I'm staying here tonight."
"I don't think that's such a good idea."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm involved."
"Didn't seem like it this morning."
"You caught me at a weak moment." I rose to my feet and threw the gloves on the ground. "You should go home."
Munch put a paw on Tom's leg and whimpered.
"Traitor," I said to him.
Tom gave me a guess-I'm-staying shrug of his shoulders.
"Whatever. I give up. You both are sleeping on the couch. I'm going to take a shower. You stay put."
Tom gave me a captain salute.
I walked down the hall and into my room and locked the door behind me. I didn't trust Tom.
OK, fine. That was a lie. I didn't trust myself.
I turned on the shower and deposited my clothes into a pile on the floor. I let the hot water fall on my face and warm my skin. My thoughts turned to Shanna Roberts. When I'd run her credit check, an apartment in Downtown did show on her report. When I did a rental verification, her manager appeared genuinely surprised that Shanna was moving. Not a red flag. Most people didn't give notice on their current apartment until they'd found another. It seemed, to me at least, that Shanna used Apartment 17 for the sole purpose of being close to Amy. Which explained why she didn't have furniture. She never intended to live there.
I brushed the water from my eyes, grabbed the bottle of Pantene, and squirted a dollop into my palm. I lathered the soap in my hands when…crap. Shampoo!
I'd completely forgotten about what Shanna had written in her notebook. I stared down at my hands and screamed. Panicky, I rinsed the soap and turned off the shower. I grabbed a towel, wrapped it around my chest, and fell into Tom.
"What's wrong?" He had me by the shoulders.
"I thought I locked the…" My eyes went to the bedroom door that was now split down the middle. "Did you kick in the door?"
"I heard you scream. What's wrong?"
"My shampoo," I said.
Tom clutched his chest. "You screamed because you're out of shampoo?" He sounded angry and relieved in the same breath.
"No, my shampoo. In Shanna's notebook she wrote that she did something to my shampoo. I forgot to tell Hampton when they interviewed me. As a matter of fact, I forgot all about it until just now when I was about to use my shampoo."
"Why would she do something to your shampoo?"
"I don't know. Why would she kill her sister? We're obviously not dealing with a sane person here." I tightened the towel wrapped around my chest, tucked the corner into the top, and walked to the kitchen. Tom followed.
"What are you doing now?" he asked.
I pulled the box of gallon Ziplocs from the cabinet. "I need to seal the shampoo and give it to Chase."
Tom and Munch followed me back to my bathroom. "Why are you taking out the whole drawer?"
I emptied the contents into a bag. "If she touched my shampoo, who knows what else she tampered with. Not worth the risk." I tossed my deodorant in next and sealed the bag.
Tom grabbed my arm so hard my hand tingled. "Shampoo?"
"Yeah, my shampoo. Why?"
Now he had me by the shoulders. "In the notebook, what did it specifically say?"
"It said Cambria shampoo with a checkmark. Why?"
"Shampoo or shampooed?" Tom asked.
I was about to say, "Does it matter?" But by the look on Tom's face, it mattered. "I'm pretty sure it said shampoo."
"Get dressed." Tom paced out of my room and into Lilly's.
"What are you doing?" I chased after him, holding tight to the corner of my towel.
"We're going down to the police station now." He flipped on Lilly's light. She didn't even flinch.
This was very un-Tom-like behavior. He could be counted on to be the rational, let's-think-things-through person in any given situation.
"You're scaring me," I said.
He collected clothes for Lilly, shoved them into her backpack, and zipped it up. "Go get dressed, Cambria."
Tom only used my full name when he was mad or it was urgent. I assumed it was the latter and didn't ask questions. I went to my room and shimmied into a pair of pants. My dampened skin made it difficult to pull the denim over my hips, but I managed. I put the grungy sports bra and purple shirt back on and ran back to Lilly's room.
"Tell me what's happening?" I asked Tom.
"Shampoo is another word for hit."
"Hit what?"
"It means Shanna hired someone to kill you."
"What?" I almost laughed. "No way. Why would shampoo be code for a hit man?"
Tom grabbed Lilly's Mickey Mouse doll. "Washed out of your life," he said. "I've spent the last six weeks researching this subject. I know what I'm talking about. Which means we all need to get to the police station now and demand protection."
I was down the hallway with Lilly flung over my shoulder before he finished his last sentence.
Lilly slept the entire journey to the living room. "Take her," I said to Tom, who followed behind with her stuff. "I have to set the alarm."
I passed Lilly off, typed in the alarm code, and set it for Away mode.
Error message 345: Lobby door open.
Crap.
"Hurry up, Cambria!" Tom said.
"I have to set the alarm this time." The wind must have pushed the lobby door, as the sensors weren't aligned, not allowing the alarm to set. I ran into the office and—bam!
The end.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
See also: Swiss Cheese?
Of my kneecap.
I collapsed to the floor. I'd been in and out of that office hundreds of times (maybe thousands) and never rammed my knee into the desk before—a huge accomplishment given that my coordination was broken. I rolled around on the floor and pushed profanity through clenched teeth. It felt like a knife was stuck in my knee, and for a single moment that was all I could think about.
"Hurry up, Cambria!" Tom yelled.
Right. Going to die.
I crawled out to the lobby on my hands and good knee and gave the front door a hard push. It was already closed.
"Forget about the alarm!" Tom yelled.
I couldn't forget about the alarm. If someone was really out to wash me, then I had to be sure they couldn't get in when we were gone. I crawled to the back door and gave it a hard push. The door chimed.
Bingo!
The sensors were aligned. The alarm could be set.
Mission accomplished.
Munch let out a series of ear-piercing barks, and the lobby window shattered. Broken glass rained down on me, cutting my hands and face with tiny shards. I crouched into a ball. My mouth tasted of metal, and I realized I was bleeding. From where, I had no idea.
"Cambria, what's going on?" Tom said.
"Get out!" I screamed.
The second window shattered, and the door blew apart.
Holy hell. Someone is shooting like a maniac!
My fight-or-flight was strong. My brain told me to stand and run. Instinct told me to lay low. I went with the latter and army crawled through the office. I could smell the sharp sulfur from the gun.
Tom was crouched behind the kitchen counter, his long body wrapped around Lilly, with his phone at his ear. "We need assistance right away!" He reached out a hand and pulled me inside. I kicked the door closed.
Lilly regarded me with one eye open and lazily licked her lips.
"What's happening?" she asked.
"We're…looking for the spider."
"Oh." She lowered her head to Tom's shoulder.
That worked. I said a quick prayer of thanks for childhood amnesia.
Munch was up on the back of the couch, barking at an unseen target. I returned to my stomach and tried to crawl to him, but Tom grabbed my ankle to keep me from moving.
"Someone is shooting at us. I have my daughte
r here. Please send help now," Tom said to dispatch.
"Munch," I called. He didn't respond. Then I remembered that wasn't his name. "Come here, Rover!"
Munch was still up on the back of the couch, barking out the window.
I kicked my leg free from Tom's grasp and army crawled across the floor, up to the couch, grabbed hold of Munch's almost nonexistent tail, and pulled him down. He wrestled to break free, barking uncontrollably. "Shhhhhh." I fought to keep him in my arms. "Stop moving." He managed to get away, climbed back up the couch, and growled.
A loud bang was followed by a faint burning smell, and suddenly smoke crept under the door.
"There is a fire now," I heard Tom say into the phone.
"Rover. Munch. Dog!" I called one more time. Munch ignored me, too busy barking at whoever was trying to shampoo us. I grabbed his hind leg and dragged him down. He fought against me, kicking and scratching and clawing at the couch. We wrestled until I was able to get him in an arm wringer—or, um, paw wringer. With his little front leg over his head and my arm wrapped around his chest, I rolled to my back and scooted to the kitchen. Munch yelped, but it was better than him getting shot in the head.
Tom pulled us in to the cocoon he'd made around our daughter. "We need to get out of here," he said.
"But if we go out the front, we could get shot."
"I hate shots," Lilly said.
I put my forehead to her. "Not that kind of shot, baby. We were just…just kidding. Bad joke."
"Like the chicken crossed the playground joke?"
"Exactly." I couldn't help but smile. "I'm a bad joke teller."
She wiped sleep from her eyes. "Yeah, you are."
More smoke slithered under the door into the kitchen, and it was clear this was no wax-melt fire. The building could very well burn down.
"Let's go back to your patio," Tom said. "We could take shelter in there."
He coughed. I coughed. Lilly coughed. Munch barked.
I pulled Lilly's shirt up over her nose. "We're going to pretend to be ninjas. OK?"
Lilly gave me a skeptical look but went along with it anyhow. Tom went first with Lilly and crawled out of the kitchen, down the hall. I assumed the same scoot-on-your-back-with-a-wiggly-dog-strapped-to-your-chest maneuver. Effective, but slow. Once I made it to my bedroom, I assumed it was safe to get to my feet and run to the patio, where Tom was waiting with open arms.