“I hate cops,” he said.
“What?” I said, struggling to stay in character. To be Zoe, feisty but responsive to the psychological power of a dealer. I forced a giggle. “I’m no cop.”
“Liar.” The back of his hand smashed my cheek, and the back of my head bounced off the wall. Colored lights exploded in my vision. He pressed a forearm against my throat. I scratched his face, tried to knee him in the balls. Then felt the cold plunge of the blade into my upper right chest.
“I got you, pig.” I’d drawn blood on his face, and it dribbled across his teeth as he smiled. Then he punched me again, kicking my back, my gut as I hit the floor. My blood felt warm and liquid as it left my body.
I don’t know why he didn’t kill me. Maybe he thought he had, that I’d bleed out. Or maybe he didn’t want to be known as a cop-killer and suffer all the bad juju that would bring down on his head. Whatever it was, I doubt he had an attack of conscience at the last minute.
I didn’t see him leave, but I knew I was alone. Blinked in and out of awareness. When the shots and shouts began to echo up from the street, I was overcome with terror. Didn’t know what was happening. With the desperation of a wounded animal I crawled to the closet. There was a nasty mattress in there, for the nights when I wanted to hide. And in my drug-and-pain addled state, I knew I didn’t want to be found.
Wadded up some bedding and pressed it to my wound.
Left the door open a crack so I could see.
Heard someone calling Zoe’s name.
In. Out. Grayness. Blackness.
Someone is here, in the room.
Someone is here, on the bed. There’s a knife on the floor next to my hand. Shouts. Shots. Screams. The vision comes, overlaying what I can see of the empty room. I see police. Colleagues. Detective Janke. Detective O’Malley. Narc squad. Talking with Sonny. Exchanging packets of cash. Jokes and feral smiles. I blink. It’s not real. Is it? No. It can’t be. Anger. Disbelief.
I’m alone, aren’t I?
Who is with me? Who is this figure of cooling flesh? What happened?
Just taking care of a little business. Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.
That was the first time I heard Zoe’s voice as something separate from my own internal monologue. Of course, at the time I didn’t realize a splinter of my identity had peeled away from the core. I seemed to drift away from my body, looking down on the humped form beside me. External vision interrupted by flashes of the internal one.
What was happening to me? Something more than coke. And I remembered with languid terror that the downer had come from Sonny, too. Made with God knew what.
If something new had been born from my psyche that day, something else had died. Because after it all went down — the stabbing, the raid, the hospital — I was a different person.
Who did you kill, Zoe?
I gulp, swallow, shudder. Come back to myself, back to the house in Astoria. Look out the windows to the river, blue and beautiful and ever-flowing.
Maybe I don’t want to know the answer.
The house smells like fresh air and newly-mown grass. I’ve opened all the windows. The filmy sheers flutter in the wind. I sit cross-legged on the floor, contractors’ business cards arranged like game of solitaire. The commitment, both monetary and metaphorical, makes my chest constrict.
Move forward, remember?
I choose one, take a deep breath, and punch in the number.
A gruff voice answers. “Joe Ferguson, construction.”
“I have a foundation that needs repair.”
He asks for details, I give them to him. The cracks, the subsidence, the broken slab. I hide nothing, and he takes everything in, arranging to come by in a day or so to see for himself. I hang up, satisfied.
Outside, a heron swoops over the roof of the neighboring house, heading for the river. I can imagine looking out at this view forever. At last, I can imagine making this place my home.
Author’s Note
I hope you enjoyed your sojourn in Astoria with Detective Audrey Lake. I’d be eternally grateful if you’d take a few minutes to leave some stars and/or a review at Amazon or Goodreads. Writers need readers, and reviews are a great way to show your support and spread the word to other folks who might enjoy this story.
If you’re interested in hearing about Audrey’s next adventure, sign up for Case Notes, my free newsletter. You’ll get early notice of the next book plus other tidbits. Thanks for reading and sharing. For more information visit my website at www.nichelleseely.com.
Read on!
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank Kendra Griffin, Kathy Mendt, and Phyllis Neher, my Colorado writing group for their tireless support and marvelous critique. They helped make this book a thousand times better. Thanks also to my mother Norma Seely for showing me first-hand the persistence and dedication it takes to be a writer, and my sister Elia Seely for reading the work over and over again even as she was working on her own novel.
My husband Aaron deserves a trophy of his own for his unfaltering support, his cooking ability, and his willingness to read and comment. Believe me when I say an honest reader’s perspective is just as valuable, maybe more so, as that of another writer.
I wrote this novel during the Covid-19 pandemic, so most of my research was conducted on the Internet by necessity. Apologies for any mistakes.
Lastly, thank you,
