She wasn’t. I could tell.
“What did you find out from the prison?” I asked, my tearful gaze returning to the screen. “Is Reyes still there? Is he … alive?”
“All the officer could tell me was that Reyes was still listed as an inmate in the prison registry, housed in D Unit. But I have to say, I got the feeling she wasn’t telling me everything.”
“I’m going tomorrow.”
“To the prison?”
“Yes.” I clicked on the personnel files that listed the administrators of the prison and highlighted the picture of Neil Gossett. “I went to school with the deputy warden.”
“Really? Friend or foe?”
I wondered the same thing myself. “That’s a tough call. Had I suddenly burst into flames in the school lunchroom, I doubt he would have sacrificed his vitamin D to save me, but I’m pretty sure he would have felt guilty about it later.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Cookie said, gazing wide eyed at another article in her hands. I leaned over, winced at the pain the movement caused, then stopped when I read the last paragraph of the article.
Uncle Bob had been the lead detective in the case against Reyes. Well, crap.
I’d have a longer attention span if there weren’t so many shiny things.
I awoke at the butt crack of dawn with the call of nature urging me out of bed. After my fall, however, I felt like I’d just downed a fifth of Jack.
After tripping on a planter, stubbing my pinkie toe on a step stool, and running face-first into the doorjamb, I eased onto the toilet and reviewed my agenda for the day with a tinkling melody playing in the background. Thank goodness I had a minimalist attitude toward home decor. If anything else had stood between me and the porcelain throne, I might not have lived to see my next birthday.
I glanced down at the football jersey I was wearing, stolen from a boyfriend in high school, a blond-haired, blue-eyed devil with sin in his blood. Even on our first date, he’d been more interested in the color of my underwear than the color of my eyes. Had I known that beforehand, I would totally have worn the teal ones. Odd thing was, I didn’t remember donning the jersey last night. I didn’t even remember going to bed.
Maybe Cookie slipped a roofie into my hot chocolate. We’d have to talk later, but for now I needed to figure out what to do with my day. Should I ditch my APD responsibilities and go to the prison to check on Reyes? Or should I dump all my APD responsibilities on Cookie and then go to the prison to check on Reyes?
My heart raced in anticipation with the thought of seeing him, though admittedly I was nervous. What if I didn’t like what I found? What if he was actually guilty? I couldn’t help but hold out hope that his conviction was all some big misunderstanding. That Reyes had been wrongfully accused. That the evidence had been mishandled or even fabricated. Denial was not just a river in Egypt.
From what I’d been able to garner last night, reading article after article on the case — not that any of them were in a particularly pretty font — and even part of the court transcripts Cookie had unearthed of Reyes’s trial, the evidence was nowhere near enough for a conviction. Yet twelve people found him guilty. And even more disturbing was the fact that there wasn’t a single mention of the abuse he’d endured. Wouldn’t being almost beaten to death by your father count for something?
As badly as I wanted to go back to sleep, I knew it wouldn’t happen. My mind was racing too hard, too fast, even though I had a very good reason for wanting to go back to sleep, to fall into oblivion, come what may. For the first night in a month, Reyes didn’t visit me. He didn’t slip into my dreams with his dark eyes and warm touch. He didn’t trail kisses down my spine or slide his fingers between my legs. And I couldn’t help but wonder why. Did I do something wrong?
My heart felt hollow. I’d become quite addicted to his nightly visits. I looked more forward to them than to my next breath. Maybe my trip to the big house would shed some fluorescents on the situation.
As I was brushing my teeth, I heard shuffling in the kitchen. While most women who live alone would be alarmed by such an occurrence, I just chalked it up to job security.
I stepped out of the bathroom and squinted against the harsh light. “Aunt Lillian?” I asked, limping to the snack bar and scooting onto a stool. Aunt Lillian’s small frame was being swallowed by a floral muumuu, which she had accessorized with a leather vest and love beads straight out of the sixties. I’d tried over the years to figure out what she’d been doing when she died. I just couldn’t make anything click that would require muumuus and love beads. Other than playing a wicked game of Twister on LSD.
“Hey, pumpkin head,” she said, her ancient smile bright, albeit toothless. “I heard you stumble your way to the bathroom, so I figured I’d earn my keep and make us some coffee. Sure looks like you could use some.”
I grimaced. “Really? How sweet.” Damn. Aunt Lillian couldn’t really make coffee. I sat at the counter and pretended to drink a cup.
“Is it too strong?” she asked.
“No way, Aunt Lil, you make the best.”
Pretending to drink coffee was similar to faking an orgasm. Where in the supernatural afterlife was the fun in that? But caffeine withdrawal was the least of my problems. I still couldn’t get Reyes’s no-show out of my head. Maybe I did do something wrong. Or didn’t do something I should have. Maybe I needed to be more proactive in bed. Of course, that would imply that I actually had anything tantamount to control during our
“You seem … distracted, honey pot.”
Well, I wasn’t voted Most Likely to Become Distracted for nothing.
“Do you have a temperature?”
I glanced back. “I’m sure my temperature’s fine, Aunt Lil. Thanks for asking.”
I neglected to mention that, yes, I did indeed have a temperature. Every being on Earth has a temperature. Even dead people have a temperature. It’s not a good one, but it’s there.
“And thanks so much for the coffee.”
“Oh, anytime, sweetness. Would you like some breakfast?”
Not if I planned to make it through the day. “Oh, no, I couldn’t ask you to do that. I need to get in the shower, anyway. Big day ahead.”
She leaned in and grinned conspiratorially. I often wondered if her hair had been that blue in real life, or if it was an effect of her being incorporeal. “You goin’ after some bad guys?”
I chuckled. “You know it. The baddest.”
She sucked in a dreamy breath. “Ah, to be young and reckless. But really, pumpkin,” she said, sobering and leveling a very serious stare on me, “you need to stop getting your ass kicked. You look like hell.”
“Thanks, Aunt Lil,” I said, easing off the stool with a grimace, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She smiled, revealing an empty cavern where her dentures had been. Apparently, they didn’t make it to the other side. I’d never been sure if Aunt Lillian knew she was dead or not, and I never had the heart to tell her. I really should, though. I finally had a coffeepot that worked, and my departed great-great-aunt decided to make herself useful.
“By the way, how was Nepal?” I asked.
“Ugh,” she said, raising her hands in helplessness, “humid and hotter than a june bug in August.”
Since the departed weren’t affected by the weather, I had to hold back a grin.
Just then, Cookie crashed into the apartment, took one look at me, and rushed forward, her sky blue pajamas skewed and crinkled. “I fell asleep,” she said in a breathless rush.
“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do at night?”
“No,” she said, looking me over with a mother’s eye, “well, yes, but I meant to check on you hours ago.” She leaned forward and peered into my eyes. Why, I had no idea. “Are you okay?”
“I’m alive,” I said. And I meant every word.
Only half convinced, she smoothed her pajama top and looked around. “Maybe I should make us some coffee.”
“Why?” I asked, my tone accusatory. “So you can slip me another roofie?”
