Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Can you do it somewhere else?” I asked, trying to stand, but his arm just tightened.
And as I settled back down, trying to accept that my blood would be splattered all over the only couch my sister and I had ever possessed—where we’d been the first owners—and the very carefully curated gallery wall behind, I heard the damn mower chugging closer.
Not two minutes later, the door burst open, and there was Sofia with a bouquet draped over her arm.
“Crazy old man conned the gardener out of one of his milk crates, then strapped it to the back of his mower. He didn’t need my help. But look! Pretty daisies. Your favorite!” She paused, sensing the tension in the air. “Everything all right? Did I interrupt something?” Her eyes went bright. “Because I wouldn’t want that. Not after how long of a dry—”
“Aren’t you supposed to be gardening?” I cut her off as Rune chuckled beside me, the sound vibrating into me with how close we were sitting. We’re not going to talk about where that sound also vibrated. Or how good this guy smelled: spicy, warm, with just a hint of… lemon cleaner.
“I am. Chip insisted I go inside and put on sunblock and a big hat. He’s actually kind of sweet beneath all that barbed wire.”
With that, she ran up the center steps with Hamster on her heels.
“Please don’t hurt my sister,” I whispered.
“I’m not going to hurt your sister.” His voice was soft, and seemingly sincere. I hoped.
We sat in silence, listening to her digging around in her room, then the bathroom, while Hammy played with one of her toys, making it let out an ear-splitting squeal. The damn thing was nothing but scraps these days, but when we’d tried to throw it away, she’d whined and moped all day until Sofia went and dug through the trash at the street to save it before the garbage men came.
The two came rushing down the steps a moment later, then ran past us toward the back door.
It wasn’t until the door slammed that anyone spoke.
“So, tell me, Carmen,” Rune said, and I tried not to react to the way his voice caressed the letters of my name. “Why did you want to kill me last night?”
The words were out before I could even realize they formed in my head.
“I wanted to kill you a lot longer than that.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Rune
Her name was Carmen Torres.
Twenty-nine.
Five-foot-seven.
Organ donor.
She lived in one of those towns close to the Jersey/New York border where the houses were smushed together and the yards were small. Though, from what Junior told me, she lived in one of the crummier areas.
“Might wanna be out of there by nightfall,” he’d warned when we’d finished the call.
I didn’t really give much thought to what I was going to do when I got there. I just told my brother that I was going to be scarce for the day. He went ahead and assumed I was going to get laid. It was easier not to correct that assumption.
Then I grabbed my bike (and her gun) and drove from Navesink Bank up to her neck of the woods.
Not wanting to give myself up, I parked in the lot of a busy grocery store a few blocks away and walked over.
It seemed Carmen lived in a small, two-level duplex. The house itself looked rundown, but there’d been a lot of care in the yard, gardens, and front porch. Bright yellow, pink, and purple blooms filled the beds, hanging baskets, and window boxes. A wind chime sat in a corner, still in the summer humidity.
It was easy to see which side a woman lived on. To the right, there was a single ancient rocking chair and an old milk crate used as a table. To the left, there were two lounging chairs with cushions and pillows, brightly colored drink tables, and someone’s forgotten book and coffee sitting on one.
The logical part of me knew I should case the joint for a bit, see who might come and go in case this Carmen woman was involved with a larger crew.
But my legs were already carrying me up the front path and porch steps.
I pressed a finger into the doorbell and listened to a jingle move through the house.
Somewhere in the backyard, a lawnmower roared to life.
Behind the door, there were several deep, threatening barks, then a soft, feminine voice. “Yes, that’s a good Hamster. Yes, so scary!”
The door swung open.
And it was not Carmen.
There were some similarities: same gorgeous skin, same dark hair (though this woman’s was curly), the same colored eyes. But where Carmen was tall and athletic, this woman looked like a moderate breeze could blow her over. Maybe breaking some bones in the process.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
It didn’t escape me that while she did open the door, the screen one was still in place. It wasn’t a flimsy screen either; it was a hard metal bar screen door. And her hand? Holding her dog’s collar, like she could command it to lunge at any moment.