Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 120722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 604(@200wpm)___ 483(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 604(@200wpm)___ 483(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Alver swallows thickly, and I lurch his way, not to hurt him but to scare the shit out of him. It works. He jumps again, his feet scrambling beneath him as he tries to run for the door.
“You’re crazy, Zoey Walker.” And with that decree, he passes Jeff and steps slowly out the door backward, as though he’s not the one who just stabbed me in the back.
Once he’s gone, Jeff chuckles. “Don’t be too hard on the old guy, Zoey. He’s trying to stay useful because retirement didn’t sit well with him. Or his wife.”
I shrug, feeling tired already. “Not my problem. He’s the one causing problems.”
Jeff nods, agreeing with me. “Your ankle really okay?”
“Yeah, it wasn’t bad. Propped it up with a little ice for the night and it was good as new in the morning.”
I leave out the part about Blake carrying me to my bedroom. One, it’s none of Jeff’s business, and two, if he hasn’t already heard, I’m not spreading gossip about myself.
“Good.” Jeff turns to go, easily giving me his back, and I stop him.
“Hey, Jeff, I got the repeat toxicology report on Richard Horne. Was gonna send it up to you, but here you are.” I give him a wry look. “Here’s a copy.” I hand him a printout and his eyes scan it.
“Tell me what I’m looking at,” Jeff finally says. “All this goddamned CSI shit gives me a headache. Give me some old school Law & Order any day. Bum-bummm.”
“It’s not that complicated,” I assure him “No worse than a ballistics test. But basically, the two are identical. Markers for a heart attack, but the heavy metals levels are unaccounted for. No reason for him to have those.”
“But the heart attack killed him?”
I hedge, not willing to call it open and shut that easily. “That was the final nail in the coffin, so to speak,” I joke, giving Jeff a single eyebrow raise, “but there was definitely something going on before that. Could the two be connected? I could see it, but it’s not like it’s sure-fire.”
“Okay, I’ll file it in old Dick Horne’s casefile.” He flicks the paper at me and turns toward the door again. “Thanks, Zoey. I’ll get out of your hair. Martha’s a’waiting.”
He leaves, and everything’s quiet and cold again.
All of this was definitely a distraction, but Alver’s accusations aren’t helping me forget Blake and that damn smile.
Stay away from him, Zoey Walker, I tell myself over and over. It’s already too dangerous, for him and you. Don’t do anything you’ll regret . . . and you’ll regret it when Blake ends up in another car accident and that one’s your fault too, regardless of whether you’re driving this time.
Sigh, I know I’m right. The frustration is that I’m not the sort of girl who can just get her itches scratched with random, no-emotions dick. If I let Blake in, I’m going to care about him. I’m going to expose him to danger. My danger. But damn if I don’t want a bit of happy, a bit of easy, and maybe, I even want to be proven wrong. If anyone can do that, Blake seems up for the job.
In a fit of impulsivity, I flip myself a metaphorical middle finger and grab another copy of the toxicology report and my purse.
If Jeff can skip out early, I can too.
In the hallway upstairs, I feel eyes on me as I leave and side-eye over my shoulder to the desk where Alver sits. He’s watching me closely but drops his gaze when he realizes I’ve caught him.
“Goodbye, Alver. I locked up downstairs so you can stay out of my morgue with that disgustingly filthy mind of yours,” I say, pulling a look of shocked horror. His jaw drops, mouth gaping, and that’s before he realizes that Tricia is sitting at her desk, listening intently to every word.
No telling what gossipy lies Alver told her, but at least I’ve planted the seed that it’s not me who’s the sicko, but Alver. I even add a little hint of a limp to my walk as I exit the building to really sell the story. Outside, I take a big breath and then laugh wildly, loudly and uninhibited, with zero cares about who might be watching me lose it.
Fuck, that felt good.
I have spent so long pussy-footing around, trying to help everyone else be comfortable and safe, that I have nearly bitten my tongue in half.
But no longer. I feel free.
Maybe not of the curse that haunts me, but at least of the gossip and glares having such a deep impact.
* * *
This is a bad idea. It’d seemed like a great one thirty minutes ago when I stomped—I mean, limped—out of my morgue and got in my car. And even on the drive here, I was sure I’m doing the right thing. Or at least doing something.