Free Poisoned Pearls by Leah Cutter Page A

his shoulder, up the
block, down the block, tracking cars and the single insane jogger who passed
us.
    The reason he kept his arm on me was because he was also
afraid that something or someone would appear and attack us. By keeping me
close, he could better protect me.
    It was pretty fucked up, but it made me feel better.
    Josh’s apartment building must have been classy once. It was
done in that fake Tudor style, with broad wooden beams that needed painting and
stucco that now crumbled and came away from the walls in patches. Large signs
were posted outside the glass doors, directing people to stand at least fifteen
feet away from the door if they wanted to smoke. Inside were more warnings
about no smoking inside.
    “Dude, are you kidding me?” I asked Josh as we entered. “You
can’t even smoke in your own damned apartment?”
    Josh shrugged. “Don’t smoke.”
    Jesus. Healthy junkies. God save me.
    “Look, I haven’t had a smoke in ages,” I told Hunter. I was
dying for a hit. Particularly since the adrenaline had started wearing off, it
was still five in the goddamn morning, and I was going to fall asleep on these
two pretty soon. Didn’t know how the hell I was going to make it through the
next day at work, either.
    “Soon,” Hunter promised easily.
    I knew he was lying. I also couldn’t get away, and screaming
didn’t seem the ideal thing to do. Not yet. Not until I had a better idea who
and what I was dealing with. Hunter would just find me again, carry me off to
someplace more remote.
    He had that whole unstoppable-intense thing going on in his
eyes.
    The hallway was at least warm, though it smelled like cat
pee. Dark red carpet hid the worst of the stains. The plaster wall bulged and
sagged in one place—probably a busted water pipe that had never really
been fixed, or that broke every year with the first freeze.
    Stairs went up to the next level, with a modern balustrade
that was probably the most up-to-date thing in the entire building. Of course,
that’s not where we went. Instead, we went downstairs.
    “Really?” I asked, though no one seemed to want to reply. At
least three of the stairs creaked badly, though the carpet seemed newer. I bet
the wood was rotting underneath, though. This shitty staircase was an accident
waiting to happen.
    “Y’all want an inspection for Christmas, don’t you?” I
asked. Neither Josh or Hunter reacted. “Never mind.”
    Much to my surprise, Josh’s apartment wasn’t garden level.
The building must have been built on a hill. While the front of the building
was at street level, so was the back, lower level. Just off Josh’s living room
was a set of glass doors leading directly out to the alley.
    Just inside the door was a built-in hutch, like for showing
off china or something, even though the building wasn’t that old. “That
original?” I asked Josh, pointing at the hutch. It was painted the same plain
beige as the walls, but I bet it was all wood underneath.
    Josh shrugged, obviously having no idea what I was asking
about.
    “My dad. He was into architecture,” I said with a shrug. Driving
through neighborhoods and talking about the buildings was something we’d done a
lot of just before he’d been killed.
    “A buildings expert,” Hunter said, nodding. “Good.”
    I opened my mouth to correct him, then figured, why bother?
    I was surprised that Josh insisted we take off our boots in
the front hallway and not track snow through the rest of his place. I was even
more surprised that Hunter acquiesced. He didn’t seem like the type to ever let
down his guard, let alone take off his boots in a stranger’s place.
    Then again, maybe he’d already checked it out and had
figured out his ten exits and cubbyholes.
    The living room was decorated in typical working-poor chic.
The long couch to the left was probably used and was covered in an ugly floral
bedspread. Blue plastic milk carts, precariously balanced one on top of the
other, made up the end