Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76456 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76456 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“So what’s your plan for tomorrow?” Vega asked as we moved to eat at the dining table—a small, round table meant only for two. Which was fine. It was only ever the two of us anyway. On the rare occasion that Vega brought a man home instead of going to his place, he never stayed to share a meal with us. Something I was grateful for. “You’ll be home alone,” she added, pouring on a creamy salad dressing over her bowl. “I have to go in. We got a bigger than usual case.”
I felt guilty feeling glad that I would have my day off in an empty apartment. I loved Vega. But I really wanted to do a deep clean of the whole apartment. Which was hard to do when Vega was around.
She wasn’t a slob, per se.
She just wasn’t as concerned with cleanliness and organization as I was.
“A big case will be good. It’s been a while,” I said. “And I think I am just going to do my weekly reset of the apartment,” I told her. Adding silently Plus some extra deep cleaning. “What?” I asked when I caught Vega giving me a look.
“You just work so hard, Mere,” she said, shrugging her shoulder, making the stretched out collar of her shirt slip off of her shoulder. “It would be nice to hear that you planned to go out and have some fun on your day off.”
I didn’t remind her that I got two days off a week. It would be pointless. Since I always spent the other day off running errands. Not exactly stuff that Vega would consider fun.
“I like cleaning,” I reminded her.
“I know you do,” she agreed, nodding at her salad. “You know what? We should go on a vacation when the weather breaks.”
“A vacation? Where?”
“I would say Vegas. You know… Sin City and all of that jazz. But that might be a tad too crazy for your taste. Maybe the city?”
“New York City?” I clarified.
“Yes. It’s the perfect mix for both of us. We can do all that culture shit you would like. Museums and Broadway shows. And then we can hit some bars, hit on some out of town strange. I’ll even spring for fancy hotel rooms. Come on. You know you want to.”
She actually did know I wanted to.
I didn’t have a big list of things I wanted to do with my life. But I did want to see a Broadway show and the museums. And I also wanted to see the tree at Christmas.
“And if we go in the late winter/ early spring, we don’t miss out on any of the fun spring shit we have going on around here that you love.”
She loved them too, whether she would admit it or not.
I’d never taken a vacation before. Unless a long weekend when I had been practically bed bound with the flu counted. And, well, it didn’t.
Somehow, as much as it made my skin feel a little itchy to think of disruptions in my routines, I found myself agreeing to the trip.
And, what’s more, being excited about it.
I knew Vega, too. She wasn’t going to let me back out of it once the thrill of the new idea faded away. She would be planning and plotting and reminding me that I’d agreed to it over the next few months.
So I went to bed trying to focus on thoughts of that trip.
Somehow, though, my gaze just kept going toward that damn white rose. And the tattooed hand that had reached out to stroke the petals.
—
I was about two-thirds done with the baseboards the next morning when my phone started to scream from its perch on the kitchen counter where I was charging it up.
No one called me.
My bills were automated.
I didn’t have any friends.
I didn’t have any family.
Save for Vega.
Who should have been at work.
A thousand catastrophes spun around in my head in the time it took me to get off the floor, pull off my gloves, and run across the apartment toward the phone.
Vega, with her car in a ditch.
Vega, falling off of her heels and breaking her ankle.
And those were some of the tamer ones.
But it wasn’t Vega’s number on my phone when I finally got to it. It was an unknown one.
Weird.
“Hello?” I answered, heart still hammering in my chest, worried it might be a first responder or someone at the police department, ready to deliver terrible news.
“Mere, this is Sandra,” the voice on the other end of the phone said, sounding breathless and hurried. My mind flipped through my mental Rolodex of names, trying to place hers. “Rayna’s sister,” she clarified, and an image of a tall woman with short-cropped blonde hair and a flannel shirt flashed into my mind.
Right.
Sandra.
“Hey, Sandra. Is everything alright?” I asked, now that my own anxiety had ceased, I was acutely aware of hers.