Free Dead Lift by Rachel Brady Page A

in a strange house with a thawing rat.
    “I’m jealous,” I said.
    “Don’t be.” It was Jeannie now. “You’re warm and dry in a swanky house with Versace and Chanel. We’re in traffic.”
    “At least you have each other.”
    “I’ll tell you what I have. A limp. From that lunatic trainer you hired.”
    “You deserved each other. I’d have taken your place had I known I’d get stuck here.”
    “Make popcorn or something. Put in a DVD. I know what I’d be doing if I were stuck in that house.”
    “I’m not trying on her clothes.”
    “Then try the jewelry.”
    “No,” I said. “This is my job, not a field trip. Put Vince back on.”
    The phone shuffled and I heard murmurs.
    “Thank you,” I said when he was back on the line. “For trying to help us, and for getting Jeannie out of there.”
    “Give this a few hours,” he said. “We flood fast, but after the rain stops, water recedes sooner than you’d think.”
    “Guess I’ll go mope now.”
    “Sit tight,” he said. “And Emily?”
    “What?” I was deep in self-pity now.
    “See you soon.”
    Stupid job
. If I had a normal job like everybody else, I’d be in Vince’s arms right now. Or at least I’d be in his truck.
    We hung up and I loitered in Claire’s upstairs hallway, unsure how to pass the time now that I’d searched every nook and cranny and violated her privacy abominably. It had served a valuable purpose, though. A better understanding of our complex, conflicted client had nearly convinced me of her innocence. This freed my mind to address other matters.
    For example, revenge was a great motive for Diana to ruin Claire, but so far nothing suggested why she’d kill her husband’s business partner to do it.
    Then a random, disconcerting thought. Would Logan really send someone out in this storm to feed his snake? He’d been here himself only hours ago.

Chapter Eleven
    Vince never came. He couldn’t. Downtown Houston was hit hard, the Southwest Freeway under water. Jeannie had urged me to make myself at home, and I knew Claire wouldn’t have minded under the circumstances, but I still couldn’t bring myself to eat her food, slip into her nightie, or sleep in her bed. So around eleven-thirty, hungry and fully dressed except for my shoes, I collapsed on top of the covers on the bed in her guest room and hoped for a break in the weather.
    At some point, I fell asleep and dreamed in a strange way I often did—where real-life noises, like a car engine and a door closing, got incorporated into my dream. Eventually, quiet returned and Vince spooned into me, pulling me tight. His warm, strong hand travelled from my hip to my waist, then over my ribs, and finally inched forward, where it cupped my breast. I felt his hot breath and tongue on my neck and, eyes still closed, I rolled over, gathered him in my arms and pulled him close with a leg. But then he spoke, and the voice was all wrong.
    My eyes popped open. A stranger had joined me in bed and he
reeked
of alcohol.
    I thrust a knee into his crotch. He curled into himself and I fisted a wad of his hair and used it jam his head even further toward his chest. He reached up to free his hair and I grabbed his hand and wrenched it behind his back, moving myself over him so that I could drive his shoulder as far out of alignment as possible. He groaned but didn’t put up the fight I’d expected.
    “I thought you were Claire.” There was a subtle slur.
    “Who are you?” I pushed his unnaturally bent arm further up his back. He grunted but didn’t struggle. My purse, with pepper spray inside, was a few feet away on the dresser. I let go of his arm and lunged for it. A bedside lamp switched on.
    In the new light, I watched a middle-aged man with still-toned pecs and abs but a pasty complexion and swollen left jaw rub and stretch his shoulder. He regarded me with what I interpreted as drunken amusement. Naked except for boxers, he propped himself on an elbow.
    His eyes twinkled, not