Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Jazz is probably right. The owner of the red truck is more likely a handyman than an assassin. Maybe I’ll knock on the neighbor’s door, pretending I have a loose floorboard, and ask for a referral just to check out his story.
Yeah, no.
I want to keep a low profile and not draw attention to myself. I definitely don’t want to go around flaunting my face to my client’s neighbors.
When all the bins are loaded, I shut the hatchback of the old station wagon I bought for a handful of cash. The hood is rusted, and the ignition is cranky, but luckily for me, Jazz knows her way around old car engines. She’s done a great job with changing the spark plugs, oil, and brake pads. The spare parts as well as my hospital stay and health tests ate up most of my savings from my previous job, but reliable wheels are non-negotiable.
“Come on, Noah.” I wave him over from where he’s jumping hurdles over the stepping stones of the path. “Let’s drop the trash off at the dump.”
His amber eyes light up. The recycle dump has industrial containers for different recyclable products. We turned matching the items to the right containers into a game. Noah gets to throw the trash that doesn’t have sharp edges through the trapdoors, an activity he enjoys tremendously. His favorite is chucking the jars through the trap hole and waiting for the shattering noise as the glass hits the pile.
He comes running and clambers into his car seat in the back, something he insists on doing himself. He says he’s too big now for me to help him.
I buckle him in and test the safety belt to ensure the clip has locked properly. Jazz slides into the passenger side. I take the wheel.
I stay alert when I turn into the street, checking my rearview mirror every few seconds, but the red truck is nowhere to be seen. No one is following us. Letting out a long breath, I ease down in the seat and finally allow myself to relax.
After stopping at the dump, we’re home just after six, which gives Jazz an hour with Noah in the park before it’s time for his bath and dinner. They leave with his plastic soccer ball. Noah loves to play with that ball. The park is just down the block, which is one of the points that tipped my decision in favor of renting here.
The furnished accessory dwelling unit we call home shares a wall with the landlord’s house. The bathroom smells moldy, and the window is stuck. On the plus side, it has a shower inside the yellowed tub and an ancient top loader in one corner. Not having to wash our clothes by hand is a big timesaver.
Noah and I bunk down in the bedroom while Jazz makes herself as comfortable as she can on the lumpy sofa in the lounge. The paint is peeling, the carpet tiles are lifting, and the roof has a leak, but there’s a small yard with a slide at the back. I keep the place clean and tidy and do my best to make it cozy.
We’re living from hand to mouth, so this is the best I can do. I’m hoping to build up the home organizing business and improve our living conditions, but I can only do that if I stay put in one place where I can grow my client base, at least for a while.
I’d love to have that soak in the tub Jazz suggested, but it’s not often that I have an hour of free time, so I decide to use it wisely by prepping Noah’s lunch box for tomorrow and getting a head start on the laundry. That way, I can get into bed earlier. At this point, sleep is higher on my priority list than a luxurious bath.
After a quick shower, I dress in clean leggings and a T-shirt. I’m padding on socked feet to the kitchen, wringing the water out of my wet hair with a towel when there’s a knock on the front door.
I stop dead, my heart jumping into my throat. Jazz has the spare key. She wouldn’t have knocked. If she’s lost her key, she would’ve called through the door to let me know it was her.
Someone knocks again, harder this time.
I take a second to weigh my options, my gaze darting between the lounge where my tote bag with the burner phone lies on the coffee table and the kitchen where I keep a gun locked in a drawer.
Making a split-second decision, I drop the towel and run for the kitchen. Both the back and front doors are locked. The windows are closed. I always double-check before hitting the shower. But windows and doors are easy to break.
I skirt around the kitchen table, knocking a chair over in my haste. Pushing myself up onto the cabinet, I climb onto the counter. I have to stand on tiptoes to reach the top of the cupboard. I feel around the crown molding for the key I taped there. It takes precious seconds, seconds in which my hand shakes so much I barely get a grip on the cupboard, but I couldn’t risk Noah finding the key.