Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
My thoughts turn back to the Customer Service arsehole. X-Member thought one bloke could take me out and secure my assignment. I’m disgusted. That’s how they treat their bloody best, like kindling for a fire.
I fade into a mirage of spectators and stroll toward the main street. Luxury’s safe for the moment, and my identity won’t be compromised. All because those customer-centric fucks have their secrets to keep. My confidentiality is of utmost importance too.
27
LUXURY
Detective Caruso, really? Of all the cops at the NYPD, why this guy?
Everything about the officer invokes old memories with his kind mahogany eyes and the smile wrinkles around his lips. His face drained of color upon seeing me, too.
I’m the ghost he never set free.
We have a history.
A year ago, Detective Caruso was overconfident. He said he’d catch Momma’s murderer. For months, I visited him at the station to ask about any information he had on the case.
The first time I brought him flowers.
Through tear-streaked eyes, I picked the weeping lilies myself.
He couldn’t take them. It was against protocol.
But he gave me something instead.
Empty promises. Caruso watered the feeble faith I had in him.
He broke my heart each time I came by. Then one day, Momma just became Gina Whitson, a woman who was brutally murdered in her own home. The reminder the general population needs ever so often to lock their doors.
I add Sidorov’s heavy body to the morbid memories I have with Momma’s.
Now, I’m back in the very same place, explaining a situation to Caruso, verbatim, what I told the uniform cops a few hours ago. We’re seated in a white interrogation room. There’s a two-way mirror to the left of us.
Sipping bitter coffee, I finish up the story. “The Russian guy, or Sidorov, as you say, was forcing me out of the back of my store. At that moment, Deon came in and pulled out a gun. Deon was probably halfway into the store by now, and he shot.”
“Miss Whitson, we’re almost done.” The Italian detective gives a warm pat to my hand. “How well do you know Deon Watts?”
“He brings me tea or coffee occasionally. He owns the barbershop a couple doors down.”
“How well did you know Mr. Sidorov?”
“Not at all, Detective Caruso. He was my first . . . customer . . . this morning. I thought he was going to rob me, then I . . . Well, I guess I did something stupid.” My left leg jitters uncomfortably. “I told Sidorov I had a gun, but—”
“So, there was another gun? Besides Deon’s gun?”
“No.” I shake my head, sniffling back tears. “You already asked if there was another gun. Repeatedly.”
“You pretended to have a gun?”
“As I said, I was just trying to scare the guy away. You know, say I had one. I’ve never touched a gun in my life. Thank God Deon came by again. He usually only drops by once.”
“Are you one-hundred-percent positive there wasn’t at least one more gun?” Detective Caruso asks the question again, causing irritation to plume around me.
“Maybe? How should I know? I’m marinating in a dead guy’s blood.” I pinch the edge of my shirt, glaring down at myself.
At the sight of a crisp, new, white undershirt, I clear my throat.
Luxxie, you’re losing it!
Earlier, Caruso escorted me to the station, and a uniform police officer had taken photos of me. My face. My hands. The scrape on my knee. Once her gaze paused from combing over me, I was given a plain undershirt and sweats in exchange for my clothing as evidence. I scrubbed the Russian’s blood off me with strong industrial soap. Probably stripped more than the essential oils from my skin. It felt like the liquid stripped away a little piece of my soul.
I look down at myself again, and the crisp, white shirt is replaced with my mother’s blouse.
One deep breath later, it’s once again a clean undershirt.
“This is the craziest day of my . . . of my . . .” In another world, I’d complete the sentence as “this is the craziest day of my life,” but it’s not.
* * *
Thirteen months ago
I grew up in a two-bedroom brownstone in Harlem. Just shy of twenty-two, I had a bottle of wine from the corner liquor store, in one hand to celebrate the painting of a magnolia I’d drawn, which was in the other. The painting had led me to a new major. One I looked forward to fulfilling.
Momma would harp about my constant changes. In the end, I would show her the business courses I took. I would explain that my short stint as an art history major and all the other majors could prove beneficial.
Pushing my key into the latch, I prepared to turn the knob, but the door slid open. I thought nothing of it. Momma often forgot to lock up after a trip to the grocery store.