Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 70429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“The truth is revealed. Cold cases, when shown in fresh spotlight, bring about new information and informants. Or that’s at least what’s expected. It’s got to be a tight fit for someone tryna hide their dirty work when them calls start comin’ in to the police, deathbed confessions from witnesses too scared to speak up way back when, Ex-girlfriends and boyfriends with an axe to grind. Reward money, flyers, podcasts… y’all wave the green flag and ring the alarm. That buzz begins all over again, my friend, on account of people like you.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you have a way with words and that your voice is extremely sexy, Azure?”
“Of course. I know you’ve been told the same thing. It’s one of the first things I noticed about you. As well as those eyes, and how good you smell.”
“So, this weekend… Saturday. Are you free that night?” He got onto I-75 to save a little bit of time.
“I’m always free. A free-thinker. Free spirit. With common sense. Grounded in reality.”
“That’s not what I asked you. Can you answer the question, please?”
She burst out laughing. “Looks like I met my match in the blunt department. Actually, no. I’m not free. But for you? I can be.”
“Good. I hear you playin’ music there in your car. What song is that, baby?” he asked. “Sounds nice.”
“Oh, that’s uh… what is that song called? Oh yeah. ‘Vibin’ Out,’ by Fkj.”
He made a mental note of it.
They spent the next couple of minutes brainstorming the timeframe and details. “Okay, Saturday, at five o’clock it is. You’ll pick me up?”
“I’ll pick you up like you’re a bucket with a handle.”
She burst out laughing. “I’ll talk to you later. You enjoy the rest of your day, Caspian.”
“You do the same, honey. I’ll be in touch.” He disconnected the call, turned up the music, and continued his jaunt to Mr. Florence’s residence.
Mrs. Florence, I know you’re here. I can feel you. I don’t know if that means you disapprove of me talkin’ to your husband, or you’re just ridin’ shotgun. Either way, it’s going to happen. I’m determined to find out who you really are—the woman behind the falling white feathers. If you want me to fall on my sword, then damn it, I need to know who’s holdin’ the blade…
Chapter Ten
When he arrived at the property, he took it all in.
The nursing home was much larger than he imagined, comprising a series of three tall gray buildings, standing side by side. Colorful world flags flew atop the roofs, the American flag in the center structure.
Parking, he got out of the car and entered the building with a sign saying ‘Visitors’ on the front automatic doors. It was a pretty chilly fall day, with temperatures dropping considerably. ‘Three Coins in the Fountain,’ by Frank Sinatra, played for him as he walked to the hostess desk.
He threw on his charm like a mask. Sporting a green button-down shirt and khakis, he looked trustworthy and approachable. Looks could be deceiving—and he loved that most of all. “Good afternoon, honey.” He leaned forward, allowing his cologne to waft over the island. “You look mighty pretty in that shade of yella.”
“Oh, my goodness! Your voice!” The woman turned crimson and grinned, pretending to fan herself. “Are you some radio announcer or somethin’?”
“Or somethin’.” She giggled at that. “The reason why I’m troublin’ you, darlin’, is because I came to see a special person. A Mr. Clifford Florence.”
“All right, and your name, sir?” She began flipping pages through a clipboard, placed it before him, and motioned for him to sign. He read the top of the sheet: VISITORS. He took the pen from her grip and scribbled his signature.
“My name is Caspian Emory.”
“Is he expectin’ you, Mr. Emory?”
“I called and spoke to him earlier. He said I could come on through.” Actually, he’d called when he knew the man was fairly sedated. He’d learned the old man’s schedule the prior week, knowing that certain special requests were better made when a person was under the influence or half-asleep.
“Are you a family member, Mr. Emory?”
Am I family member? You incompetent idiot. Just let me see him or bring him to me.
“Maybe you married into the family?” She looked him up and down as she clarified herself, obviously noting his look of utter disbelief and confusion.
What the hell business is that of yours if I am or not? None of that even matters.
“No… I’m a friend of the family.”
The woman smiled in understanding, her plump cheeks rosy. Taking the pen from him, she placed it down onto the clipboard, rose from her seat, and rounded the desk.
“You can take a load off and wait right here. I’ll go get him and you two can chat in the recreation center.”
As she walked to an elevator, he studied the cheap quality printed artwork in the lobby. It smelled like turpentine and Pine Sol in the area. How strange. Sometimes he’d catch elderly people staring at him as they walked like snails or with the aid of walkers or wheelchairs down the main hallway. Some had the assistance of a nurse or orderly. One of them was a sleepy-eyed old lady with sallow skin and a bluish tinge under her eyes, long limbs slumped and skin dragging in folds off her bones. She was wearing an oversized floral print dress as she was pushed down the hall in a squeaking wheelchair. Something about her reminded him of his grandmother, who’d passed away so long ago.