Free White Space by Ilsa J. Bick Page B

would want a car whose last passenger had, literally, lost her head when the impact catapulted her right out that busted windshield like a cannonball.
    “I’m fine,” she said, and this was true. The woman had been dead-drunk when she died. A fuzzy moment of awareness, a spike of fear, and then
blam
! No white light, no meet-up with old friends and family, no floating around for final good-byes or if-I-stays. Just
hello, darkness, my old friend
, which meant the dead woman’s whisper was easily soothed. After an hour, Rima couldn’t finish a sentence without punctuating with a yawn. Dropping her seat, she blacked out, only coming to when
4
    THERE’S A THUNK of a lock and a squeal of hinges as Tony drops into the driver’s seat, wreathed in the aroma of fried eggs, salty grease, and coffee.
    “Here.” He thrusts a large brown paper sack into her hands. “I didn’t know if you liked ham or sausage, so I got one of each. There’s coffee, too, and some sugar and milk. Or they’ve got that artificial stuff, in case you like that, or orange juice.”
    “No, this is great. Thanks.” The paper sack warms her hands, and the aroma is so good her stomach moans. She hasn’t eaten in almost two days. “You didn’t have to do this.”
    “I know. It’s just I would’ve felt guilty eating in front of you.”
    He doesn’t lie well. He could easily have wolfed something inside and she’d never have known. “I don’t have a lot of money,” she says, which is the truth. Her nest egg’s a whopping $81.27, all that was left after her mother found her stash. Again. All that coke, it’s a miracle Anita still has a
nose
, much less a sense of smell. Dirty socks Anita’ll let go until they sprout hair and teeth and start moving up the evolutionary ladder, but squirrel away a wad of cash? Then the woman morphs into a frigging bloodhound.
    A blush stains Tony’s jaw. “Hey, don’t worry about that. You’re doing me the favor. Otherwise, I’d have nothing to do but listen to the radio, and all they talk about are those murders. Can you imagine that poor kid finding—”
    “How about we eat inside?” The last thing she wants to dwell on is death, especially murder. “It’ll be warmer and we won’t mess up your car.”
    “Too late,” Tony says, throwing a rueful glance. The Camry’s backseat is strewn with clothing, crumpled fast-food bags, three shoeboxes of cassettes—mostly Lloyd Webber musicals (if Rima hears “I Dreamed a Dream” one more time,she might be forced to hurt someone), a wheezy old cassette recorder, vintage comics like
Tales from the Crypt
and
Vault of Horror
, and a couple Lovecrafts with nightmare covers of gruesome monsters boiling with tentacles.
    She laughs. “How about we don’t mess it up more than it is already? Those comic books must’ve cost a fortune.”
    “Um, no, I paid regular price, but it’d be nicer inside, yeah.” Tony’s grin is hesitant, but when it comes, his whole face lights up. With his mop of brown curls and light blue eyes, he’s really pretty handsome.
    “Great,” she says, and reaches for the door handle.
    “Hang on.” He depresses the master lock on his door. “The power locks are all screwed up so you can only open them from my side. I keep meaning to get them fixed.”
    Crossing the lot, she spots the birds: five very large, glossy black crows ranged round a rust-red truck slotted beneath a gnarly, naked maple. Four crows brood on a trio of low-hanging branches, their inky talons clamped tight. A fifth teeters above the grinning grill like a bizarre ornament.
    She knows, instantly. Death—very recent, very strong—has touched that truck. Like the crow floating above Tony’s Camry, the birds are a dead giveaway, no pun intended. The more there are, the closer they come to a house or car or place, the more violent the death. One bird, she can handle. Times when whole flocks blanket the roof at the Goodwill, she takes a pass. And forget