Careful not to touch anything, Gaby inched her way to the scum-encrusted sink, barely connected to the wall by exposed pipes. So many chips and cracks marred the porcelain that using it would be hazardous.
Gaby wrinkled her nose in revulsion and knew she couldn't let it matter. Using a sliver of hair- and dirt- encrusted soap, she washed away all signs of the mutilated man's blood.
Though it was disgusting, she even splashed her face and rinsed out her mouth. The water tasted as metallic as the blood, but her head knew the difference and she felt better.
Next, standing on one foot at a time, she removed her flip-flops and cleaned all traces of mud from between her toes, then cleaned off the shoes, too.
She pulled out her knife and washed it, taking her time, being methodical.
When she finally left the restroom, thick gray clouds had rolled in to hide the sun.
Not a storm, she silently prayed.
Anything but that.
Luckily, she made it to her building without a single raindrop falling. She was so exhausted that she wanted only to lock herself in her room and pass out on the bed. She did not want to visit with Morty—but with him sitting on the front steps, more or less waiting for her, she couldn't avoid him.
He jumped to his feet at her approach, and Gaby noticed his red-rimmed eyes, his blotchy cheeks.
She drew up short. 'No fucking way have you been crying.'
Indignant, he shook his head and swiped a forearm past his nose. 'No. Course not.'
But she knew he lied. She always knew those sorts of things, even when she'd rather not. Gritting her teeth, she took the most expedient way out of the confrontation.
'Look, I'm sorry okay? I've been tired lately. Not up to snuff. I don't mean to be a bitch. I just… am.'
His expression softened. He rubbed the back of his neck. 'Yeah, I know. It's okay.'
Nonplussed, Gaby glared at him. He knew? So he didn't intend to deny her bitchiness?
'Great,' she said, all but grinding out the word. 'Then if that's settled…'
He shifted, effectively blocking her entrance into the building. Gaby lifted a brow.
He dared?
Clearing his throat, Mort said, 'That's, tun, not why I was waiting for you.'
'No?'
He hemmed and hawed around, shuffling his feet.
'Jesus, Mort, spit it out, will ya? In case you can't tell, I'm beat. I need to get some rest and—'
'A cop stopped by here, looking for you. A really big cop. Detective Luther Cross, I think was his name. He said he'd come back tonight. I just… I thought you should know.'
Eyes narrowed, mistrust prickling. Gaby moved forward with slow, precise purpose. 'What did you tell him, Mort?'
When Morty flushed, she caught him by his shirtfront and dragged him close.
'Mort?'
'Nothing. That is… not much.' He groaned as if in pain. 'I told him you were a good person, Gaby. I told him you'd never have a run-in with the police. He wouldn't tell me why he wanted to see you, but he asked all kinds of questions, like what you do for a living, where your family lives. Stuff like that.'
'Yeah, well… He wanted to know where you were, and Gaby, I'm sorry, but I had no idea what to say.'
Which was exactly why she never told him shit—so he couldn't give anything way. 'So you said nothing, right?'
He shook his head. 'He kept staring at me and I'm not a good liar. I had to say
She nodded.
'He asked me how long you'd been my tenant, and when I told him, I don't think he believed me.' Nervousness flushed Mort's cheeks. 'He kept asking me if we ever talk, if we have any casual conversations… all kinds of stuff like that.'
'Screw him.' Gaby released Mort, even smoothed down his wrinkled shirt. 'Who cares what he believes?'
'Uh… I thought you might.'
Weary to the bone, she shook her head. 'I need to shower. And sleep. If the cop shows back up, tell him to go away.'
That instruction left Mort wide-eyed with incredulity. 'But what he's a cop! What if he insists…'
'He can't insist without a warrant, so unless he has one, don't bother me.'
Hands twisted together, Mort asked, 'And if he does?'
Gaby sighed. 'You know where to find me.'
'He, uh, he seemed like a nice guy.'
'Yeah, right.' Big and good-looking, and so full of himself. And he had that gentle, superior aura floating around him. Gaby snorted. 'He's a regular superhero.'
'You say that like you don't believe in heroes.'
Mort sounded so wounded that Gaby blinked at him. 'What? And you do?'
'Well… yeah.'
'You've been reading too many graphic novels.' He'd been reading too much of
Morty went soft. 'Gaby, don't say that.'
'It's a lost cause, Mort. Trust me.' She had the emotional scars to prove it. 'The world is not a comic book, and Superman isn't going to fly in and save a damned thing.'
'Gaby?' Confusion filled his tone and marred his expression.
She felt like she'd kicked a puppy. What did it matter if Mort had his illusions? For most people, that's what got them through the day.
'Forget I said anything.' Pushing past Mort and into the building, she trudged up the steps. Once inside her room, she secured the doors, removed the leather sheath strapped around her waist, and, still wearing the nasty shirt and soiled jeans, stepped into the shower.
What better way to scrub the grungy clothes clean?
As the soap and warm water helped wash away the remnants of the woods, Gaby's thought scuttled around at Mach speed.
What had she felt at the isolation hospital—horrific memories, or current misery? A threat?
And that damn Mort, looking to her for reassurance, and for so much more. She shied away from that thought, and focused on Detective Luther Cross instead.
Feeling marginally revitalized, she pictured the cop as she'd last seen him, watching her walk away, and then talking to those bums by the saloon. So he knew where she lived? And he thought he had reason to talk to her?
That probably should have bothered her more than it did, but so much turmoil twisted through her exhausted mind, grasping one particular worry seemed impossible.
Maybe he wouldn't come back at all. And maybe, someday, she'd be a normal woman.
She wouldn't place a bet on either possibility.
For six straight hours, Gaby gave herself over to sleep. Before lying down, she'd taken every precaution she could to ensure her own safety. She'd never slept through an intrusion, no matter how exhausted she might be. But chance was a commodity she couldn't afford.
She woke disoriented and dehydrated, and immediately wanted to write.
That's how it always happened for her. Writing wasn't a hobby or a true occupation. It was a passion. A necessity to her body and organs and soul—like breathing.
Like killing demons.
Using vivid descriptions in her novels helped her exorcise them from her mind. The details of her missions for God went into the stories, there for the entire world to see if only people would wake up and acknowledge the