minutes over the next week didn’t help her mood. Something just wasn’t right with their relationship. She glanced at the Krazy Kat clock on her wall and realized it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet and she was starting to feel anxious about going to bed. This would be the fourth night in a row she didn’t sleep well, unless she took her usual dose of Ambien. And that’s what she wanted to do in the worst way. She’d had to take Xanax the last few days as pressure mounted with the discovery of two bodies being linked to one killer. The Xanax helped her get through the day; it was the Ambien that helped her get through the night. And in two or three hours she’d have to make a decision: go another night with almost no sleep and drag through the day, or pop an Ambien and feel pharmaceutically groggy until ten o’clock in the morning. The choices weren’t great. She wondered how Stallings functioned so well with as little sleep as he got each night. There was more than enough evidence of his nighttime activities like crawling around different neighborhoods looking for the right lead on a missing person or the tiny piece of forensic evidence that would help identify a killer. Patty also knew he spent a lot of time tracking down leads on his own missing daughter. That was something he couldn’t talk about around the sheriff’s office because he’d never been assigned to the case. He never would be; it was his own daughter. But he spent a lot of time on the computer and talking to missing persons detectives all across the country, hoping to find some clue as to what had happened to Jeanie after the Friday she walked away without a word to anyone. Poor John Stallings had a lot more to deal with than Patty did and she felt like he was a pretty good example. He was calm and patient, didn’t drink, and never took pills.
Her new attitude had caused her to not renew any of her pain-pill prescriptions and now here she was in the early evening, anxious, alone, worried about sleeping, and in pain. Maybe she should’ve thought this out a little better.
Buddy had cheated and used a mold to blow the glass containers for his work of art. He used a mold so each container would slip into the slot it was made for. Right now he had an extra two containers with lids and rubber gaskets ready to go. Some were a rich blue glass, others a Coca-Cola bottle green. Any of them would make lovely sea glass if they washed up on one of Florida’s sandy beaches. He had to have a clock directly above his workbench or he’d lose all track of time when he worked on his glass sculptures.
He ran up and took a quick shower in his apartment and changed into a nice pair of jeans and a button-down shirt. At exactly eight o’clock he heard a car door and the unmistakable rumble of feet on the staircase to the apartment. He felt a sense of dread as he padded to the door across the expensive hardwood floor he had put in two years ago. Somehow having Donna standing in front of her sister made him feel a little better. Buddy almost leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, but once again Cheryl’s scowl forced him back. He allowed them to step into the entryway directly in front of his small kitchen.
He started to get annoyed but remembered what the doctor had told him and took a deep breath. At least this time they’d made an appointment and hadn’t scared anyone off. He didn’t have enough time left to waste potential candidates for his work of art. Cheryl had already cost him a great addition. Even though they had an appointment and were exactly on time, the thought of that woman invading his home pissed him off.
He thought about the precious hours he had spent with Jessie and how he would’ve felt if they had interrupted him. He had gotten to know the sweet girl from Ocala even after he had to secure her in a chair for more than an hour before he finally used his braided cord. Thinking back on the whole incident he felt a pang of guilt. He’d released the cord to allow her to gasp her final breath but had fumbled with the jar and missed it, so he had to do it a second time. He didn’t enjoy terrifying someone like that. But there was nothing else he could have done. She’d been a good candidate to that point and he couldn’t just let her walk away. Now she rested in the jar at the bottom left of this work of art.
Buddy was shocked when Cheryl allowed her sister to do the talking. This meant Cheryl really wanted him to move out. Donna’s pretty eyes and natural body added impact to anything she asked and he found himself more open to what she had to say. She used that quiet little-girl voice of hers.
“We’d like to buy out your lease, Buddy.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“What if we made it worth your while?” She gave him a sweet smile.
He shook his head like he always did.
Apparently that was too much for Cheryl, as she pushed past her sister and poked him in the chest, saying, “Look, asshole, we own this building. Our father left it to us when he died. We have plans for it once you’re out of the way.”
He didn’t react to her bony finger jammed in his chest. She was like an aggressive drunk in a bar, pushing toward him, doing everything but slurring her words. But he kept calm and said, “Your father may have left you the building, but he leased it to me first. If you thought you could get me out of here through a lawsuit you’d already be in court. I have my reasons for staying and not wanting to move right now. I wish you’d respect them.”
Cheryl spat out a curse, turned, pushed past her sister, and disappeared out the door. He could hear her heavy footfalls on the rickety wooden stairs and heard something in his shop fall over as she stomped out the door he’d left open for them.
Donna shrugged and gave him a slight smile, turned, and followed her sister.
The image of Cheryl standing in front of him was burned in his mind. She had a superficial beauty-the kind of looks that turned heads in some circles-but she had no inner beauty, no soul, and for that reason she’d never be of use for anything worthwhile.
ELEVEN
John Stallings leaned back in the hard chair at the dining-room table of his family’s house. As Charlie raced up the stairs to get ready for bed, he rubbed his eyes hard, trying to block out the trouble fractions still seemed to give him. As much as he disliked relearning all the rules of fractions or long division or any other math problems that he helped Charlie with each night, he wouldn’t give up one second of his time with his boy to do anything else.
He looked out into the living room at his fourteen-year-old daughter, Lauren, lounging on the sofa watching TV. Occasionally she rolled onto her back and texted someone on her small phone. She said hello when he came in and grunted a couple times to his inquiries, but she’d had very little contact with him other than those basic communications.
Then he got a surprise, something he hadn’t seen in over a week and certainly hadn’t expected tonight. At the top of the stairs, his wife of nineteen years stood silently staring down at him. She glided down the stairs one at a time like she was unsure of her footing or carrying a fragile piece of glass. She kept a steady pace, taking the chair directly across from him at the dining-room table, sitting with the grace of a dancer.
She didn’t say anything as he stared at her beautiful face with her delicate, defined features and shiny dark hair dripping down over her shoulder. There hadn’t been one time since the day he met her at the University of South Florida he didn’t think she was the prettiest woman he had ever met. Even tonight, with all the acrimony between them, one look made it all melt away.
Her voice was scratchy like she’d just woken up, but she didn’t look like she’d had any recent bouts with drugs or alcohol, which had plagued her since before Jeanie had disappeared.
Maria said, “How’s it going, John?”
He shrugged. “Charlie’s got a pretty good head for numbers.”
“I’m glad somebody does. Thanks for coming over to help him with it.”
“No sweat. I was over visiting my dad anyway.”
“I’m impressed you’ve tried to work things out with him. I know the kids get a big kick out of seeing him. How’s he doing?”
“I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. He seemed confused when I was over there.”
“I can tell you from personal experience that even when you’re not drinking or drugging, the effects linger a long, long time. Confusion is the least of an alcoholic’s problems.”
For the first time in many months she seemed interested and connected and what she said made sense. He felt better already.
Tony Mazzetti sat quietly in his Crown Vic with Sparky Taylor content reading an issue of
