Thicker than Blood

by C. J. Darlington

Hunter hesitated too long before answering. “I have to figure this out before Pop will let you come back.”

  Countless responses came to her, but she couldn’t speak. Vince was right. They’d never believe her now about the stealing. How convenient. Hunter would think she was smearing Vince to save her own hide.

  She looked at Vince with tears in her eyes. “How can you do this to me?”

  His response came back a whisper. “Darling, you did it to yourself.”

  It took all the strength Christy had to walk normally from the room. There was nothing she could say. The decision was made. Hunter believed Vince. Could she blame him after what she’d done? She gathered her jacket and purse in a daze.

  Hunter caught up with her at the back door. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  It had started snowing again. Neither of them spoke as they walked. Everything in her wanted to fight this and convince Hunter of the truth about Vince. But no matter what she said, he wouldn’t trust her now. He couldn’t.

  At her car Hunter said, “Can you understand where I’m coming from? I trusted you. When I think of what you did behind my back . . .”

  Christy’s ire rose at his words, but she quieted it. She couldn’t let herself blame him for anything. All of this was her fault. Whether Vince betrayed her or not, the fact still remained, she stole from Hunter. She deserved what was happening.

  “You have every right to do this.”

  “Why couldn’t you have told me about Fletcher yourself?”

  She let out a laugh, glanced at the sky, then back at him. “Because I wanted to bury that stupid deal and forget it ever happened.”

  The sadness in his eyes was unbearable. Christy unlocked her car and got inside. “Guess this is good-bye.”

  “Something might work out.”

  She smiled at the words, amazed Hunter could bring himself to speak them after what he’d just learned. “I admit I was dishonest before. But please know I had nothing to do with the stolen books. If you believe anything, believe that.”

  He looked at her, and there was still kindness on his disappointed face. “I wouldn’t put much past Vince.”

  “I’d do anything to go back and erase what I did.”

  “I know you would.”

  Closing her door, she put down the window to apologize again, but Hunter wasn’t focused on her anymore. He was staring at something in the back of the car.

  “What is it?”

  He touched her shoulder. “Where’d you get that?”

  “What?”

  “That book.” He motioned toward the seat behind her.

  Christy twisted around as he opened the door and reached for whatever it was. Her car was often littered with books, but they were usually cheap paperbacks she could abuse without care. “I’m always reading something.”

  “I didn’t know you liked Hemingway.” Hunter lifted a hardcover book from the seat and turned it around so she could see the title. For Whom the Bell Tolls.

  “I didn’t take that!” She jumped out of the car and pounced for the book.

  But he swung it out of her reach. Only after he paged through it did he hand it to her with a snort of disgust. “See for yourself.”

  Christy immediately saw the flyleaf. There was Hunter’s neat penciled words: First edition, first issue dust jacket, signed, and on the title page was Hemingway’s valuable signature.

  The missing book.

  She gave it back to him. “I can’t expect you to trust me, but I didn’t do this. I don’t know how that book got in my car.”

  Hunter looked from the book to her.

  “It’s the truth,” she said. “Vince is trying to frame me.”

  He held the bridge of his nose between his fingers, his eyes closing for a moment.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  Hunter shook his head. “Thanks for finding it.” Then without another word he walked back into the store. The door closed behind him, the Authorized Personnel sign jeering she wasn’t welcome to follow.

  All Christy could do was drive away. As she did, she glanced back, trying to imprint Dawson’s Book Barn in her memory, as if she might never see it again. The smoke curling to the sky, the colorful art books on display in the window. She’d looked forward to seeing these familiar sights every morning for the past four years. Now they pushed her away.

  Christy waited for the traffic to let her out on the road and looked back once more. Vince leaned against the side of the building with a cigar dangling from his fingers.

  He waved.

  Chapter 11

  From a dark booth in the White Horse bar Christy ordered another martini. She nursed it, like she had the last one, enjoying the alcohol’s warmth gliding down her throat. Taking a drag from her Winston, the two sensations combined to bring the bliss she depended on.

  She rubbed her thumb up and down the glass. But not even a martini could make her forget there was no rising early for work tomorrow. Her life was crumbling. That was a fact getting drunk wouldn’t change.

  Balls cracked at the pool table, and Christy tried to tune out the blaring football game on the TV. She pulled out her cell phone and contemplated calling it off. She’d been the one who instigated it half an hour ago when she rang Vince and asked him to come down. She could cancel.

  But, no. She returned the cell to her purse. This time, she wanted to meet with Vince.

  Two minutes early he walked through the bar’s front door, scanning the smoky room. When his gaze lit on her, his lips curled up into that movie star smile she used to find so charming. Christy took another swallow of her drink and watched Vince swagger toward her. Always on time. No doubt he thought she’d called this meeting to grovel at his feet and beg for forgiveness. Stirring her martini, she chuckled, watching the olive spin round and round on the bottom.

  Vince slipped into the bench across from her. “Hi.”

  She just smiled. It would be fun to see how he reacted to her silence.

  “You wanted to talk?”

  Stonewalling him for as long as she could, Christy bumped out another cigarette. “Sure, let’s chat. Just like old times.”

  “About today. I—”

  “Not like anything’s happened between us.”

  Vince unzipped his leather coat, shrugging out of it. He scowled at her glass. “How much have you had?”

  “I wanna thank you.” She flicked her Bic lighter and held it on for a second, watching the flame dance before her face. Lifting her eyes to Vince’s, she removed her thumb, and the flame disappeared. “For screwing up my life.”

  He leaned his elbows on the table. “You’re smashed.”

  She flicked the lighter again, this time touching it to the end of her Winston.

  “You can’t even think straight,” Vince said.

  “I’m thinking perfectly straight.”

  “Christy . . .” Vince reached for her hand, but she grabbed her martini and leaned back into the bench, keeping herself out of his reach.

  “Bet you think I’m angry.” Blowing out a long stream of smoke, she let the words hang in the air. “But you know what?”

  Vince steepled his fingers into an I’m-still-in-control gesture, shooting her an amused smile.

  “I’m celebratin’.”

  A young waitress materialized at their table. Vince started to wave her away, but Christy caught the girl’s arm. “Hey, how ya doin’? Mr. Excitement here’ll have a scotch on the rocks.”

  Vince’s lips pursed. “Make it a 7UP.”

  The waitress hesitated, looking to Christy. They’d always been friendly to each other.

  Christy shrugged. “Get the man what he wants. And I’ll have another one of these.” She tapped the half-empty martini glass with her fingernail.

  Leaning against the wall, Christy slipped off her sneakers and pulled both legs onto the bench. She loved the way alcohol emboldened her. She was no longer the spineless woman who wouldn’t stand up for he
rself.

  “Welcome to my party, Vince.”

  “You’re making absolutely no sense. Listen. My car’s right outside. Let me take you home, and together we can get you sobered up.”

  “Oh, and thanks for the Hemingway. But I already have a copy.”

  “You need help.”

  “I don’t need anyone’s help. Especially not yours.”

  “But you do.” Vince raised his hands, palms up, to indicate the whole room. “Look around you. Is this what you want for your life?”

  That hit a nerve. “How dare you insult me after what you did today.”

  “You chose that deal with Fletcher knowing full well what you were doing. But you didn’t care, did you? What did he pay? A hundred bucks? The truth is, what happened today was your own fault. And it could’ve been prevented, by the way.”

  “You put that book in my car!”

  “You gave me no other choice.”

  Christy pulled a drag from her Winston. “Oh, please.”

  “You didn’t keep your end of the bargain.”

  “And if you happen to ruin someone’s career along the way, no problem, right?”

  “All I’m saying . . .” His voice trailed off when the waitress returned to their table.

  She set down their drinks. “Here you go.”

  Neither of them thanked her.

  “All I’m saying,” Vince said, lowering his voice, “is that you’ll never amount to anything by yourself. But with me you could be someone. Success, Christy. Don’t you want that?”

  “Just shut up.” She hammered the remains of her cigarette into the table’s brown plastic ashtray, lighting up another without missing a beat. “All you did today was set me free.”

  “You’re not listening to me.”

  Christy wrapped her fingers around her glass. “Why should I? I gave you everything. And what did you do? Threw it in my face.”

  “It doesn’t have to be this way. We can talk to Rob together and work something out. He’ll listen to me.”

  She laughed, hot anger flaring in her veins. “It was a stupid move too. Hunter already suspected you. Now you’ve freed me to tell him all about your schemes.”

  “He won’t believe you.”

  “Sure about that?”

  “This is getting us nowhere. If you’ll just—”

  “I’m gonna destroy you. Like you destroyed me.”

  Vince shoved his drink aside, 7UP splashing on the table. “Don’t threaten me.”

  “Doesn’t feel so good, does it?”

  “You’re making a huge mistake.”

  “What? By sticking up for myself? I’m not a rug.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.” Christy held up her cell phone for Vince to see. “We could tell him together if you want, or I could do it for you.” She was mocking him now, and she felt no fear.

  The vein on Vince’s temple bulged, a sure sign she’d punched a button. But she didn’t care. Not tonight. Vince was smaller than he’d ever been, and she reveled in every second of her new-found independence. She didn’t need anyone. Not Vince, not Hunter, not the Book Barn. She was in charge of her own life. No one was going to tell her how to run it anymore.

  “Speed dial 3, I believe,” she said.

  “I’m giving you one last chance.” Vince emphasized each word, his bushy eyebrows dipping. “Even now I’ll forget about everything, and we can start over. Just put the phone away, and let me help you to the car.”

  Finishing her martini with one last gulp, Christy dropped the cell phone back into her purse. “Shook up now, aren’t we?”

  Vince’s eyes narrowed, the corner of his mouth pulling into a smile that was anything but jovial. “Think you’re clever?”

  “No, I think I’m done with you.”

  He looked away for a second, then quickly looked back to her. “I love you. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

  “If this is love . . .” Christy tapped ash off her cigarette, then met his eyes. “You know, I used to love you too. When we met I thought maybe I’d finally found someone who loved me for me. But you don’t love me.”

  Vince stood and sat down beside her. He reached around her shoulders, rubbing her arm with his warm fingers.

  She tensed, and he felt it.

  “Just relax. We can stay here for a little bit if you want. I do love you.”

  Even through the alcohol’s haze, she wasn’t fooled, and she wouldn’t let Vince manipulate her again.

  “We’re meant to be together.”

  “No, Vince.” She tried to push him away with her elbow.

  He leaned his clean-shaven face closer to hers, his voice tender. “Don’t. I won’t let you go.”

  A sudden ferocity filled her limbs. She carefully set down her drink, then shoved Vince away with both hands. His face had just enough time to register surprise before he tumbled over the edge of the bench and onto the floor.

  Three hefty guys in baseball caps at the nearest table turned toward her. Someone laughed. Vince scrambled to his feet, a reckless shaft of hair falling into his eyes. “What are you doing?”

  Another laugh, this time from one of the baseball hat guys. “Guess she don’t want you, dude.”

  Swearing at the guy, Vince grabbed his jacket and towered over her. His starched gray oxford was half untucked. “Think you can just throw me away like a piece of trash?”

  She laughed too and started in on the third martini. It was ecstasy to be the one in control. Out of the corner of her eye she saw two of the men at the table stand up.

  Vince pointed at her. “Well, you can’t.”

  “How ’bout you just get lost, ’kay? I’m enjoying myself here.”

  One of the guys at the table stepped closer. “There a problem?”

  “Yeah. This man is harassing me.”

  Without another word Vince stormed away and out the door. Finishing her drink and pack of Winstons, Christy reveled in every second. She was finally free.

  When the bar closed at two, the middle-aged bartender with glossy red lipstick reminded Christy it was time to leave. “Party’s over, hon.” She walked her to the door and gave her a light push into the night. By the time Christy turned around, the door had locked behind her, and the neon Budweiser and Coors signs flashing from the window were the only lights on.

  She stumbled to her Honda at the edge of the parking lot and practically fell into the driver’s seat. She wouldn’t be stupid. She’d wait it out a bit. Let the alcohol wear off before driving home.

  By the time she came to, the sky was turning predawn gray. She blew on her hands to thaw out her fingers and peered through the car’s foggy windows. If she could just make it home. Then she could zonk out and warm up. It was only two miles away.

  Turning down her street, two empty police cruisers faced her, lights flashing. Drug bust was her first thought, but then she saw the fire engine and neighbors from all over her complex huddled at the curb.

  Some wore jackets over their pajamas, a few only had bathrobes that flapped in the chilling breeze. Her landlady, Mrs. Mendoza, stood in the middle of the crowd, curlers still stuck in her frosted hair.

  When she saw Christy drive up she pointed at her, and the rest of the neighbors stared.

  Christy’s stomach lurched as she saw the blown-out windows and soot-drenched bricks of the third floor.

  Her floor.

  Jumping from the car, she forced her legs to hold her and ran toward the cluster in the street. “What happened?”

  Mrs. Mendoza broke away from the others. “Where were you?”

  “My apartment. Is it okay?”

  “It’s bad,” the landlady said with a shake of her head.

  Christy felt herself reel.

  Mrs. Mendoza caught her arm. “We’re lucky someone smelled the smoke. The whole building could’ve gone up.”

  “But how?” She looked up at the windows again. “I’m so careful about turning stuff o
ff.”

  “They’re telling me,” Mrs. Mendoza said, waving toward the firemen, “it could be arson, and it started in your apartment.”

  “What?”

  “Found a can of kerosene, I think. I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you about it.”

  Christy spent the next half hour being questioned by firemen and police.

  “When did you leave? Did you lock the door? Did you have any arguments with anyone? Who else has a key? How long have you lived here?”

  At some point a news van arrived, launching its satellite pole high into the air. The reporter got wind of the arson theory and demanded an interview. She refused, and Mrs. Mendoza eagerly took her place in front of the camera.

  Christy left the crowd to their own devices and stood by herself on the sidewalk facing the apartments. She covered her eyes with her hand. How could this be happening?

  She had to get in. See what was left. Knowing the firemen probably wouldn’t let her inside alone, she made sure no one was watching before rushing up the steps into the building. She didn’t care if she was allowed. If someone tried to stop her they’d have to drag her away kicking and screaming.

  Christy reached the third floor with heaving sides. Fumes scratched at her eyes and throat, and even when she held her sleeve over her face she could barely breathe.

  She hesitated, then forced herself forward. She had to face this.

  Her door hung crookedly on one hinge, chopped and splintered where the doorknob once was. The fireman’s entry route.

  Plink. Plink. Plink.

  Water dripped from the ceiling, and even though she’d braced herself, she wasn’t prepared for the destruction and foul smell. She strained to recognize what was supposed to be her home. The carpet was a swollen sponge under her feet, and cold droplets from the ceiling hit her head. Revulsion struck her when she saw the corner of the room where Aunt Edna’s books had been stacked.

  Choking and coughing on the gases hanging in the air, she took a few steps toward the box fragments and burned survivors. It had taken her hours to lug all the boxes up here and stack them in this corner. They’d towered four feet high. But now . . . Aunt Edna’s gift to her was rubbish.

  Christy turned toward the bookcase that had housed her mystery collection. Those books too were scorched beyond recognition, the middle shelf disintegrated, its remnants strewn across the floor.

  Kneeling, her jeans were instantly soaked. Christy picked up one of the fallen books as carefully as if it were a wounded animal. The first letters of the author’s name were still readable on the spine, and she knew this worthless piece of charred pulp was once her most treasured possession, Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie. She held its soggy remains to her chest.