Free Dead Lift by Rachel Brady Page B

in the kindly Santa Claus way. “A saucy one, you are.”
    “How’d you get in here? Who are you?”
    He sat up. “I used my key.”
    Hell, I thought, is there anyone in town who
doesn’t
have a key to this house? And the security code?
    I felt around for the pepper spray inside my bag while I bumbled into my shoes.
    “Don’t tell me you got a piece in there, honey.”
    “I’m leaving,” I said, heading for the door. “If you know what’s good for you, stay in that bed.”
    “I’ll stay in this bed because I’m plain-ass tired, not because my wife’s latest romp tells me what to do.”
    In the doorway, I stopped and flipped on the overhead lights. “Daniel?” It made sense he’d sleep in the guest room.
    “I didn’t know she was into girls now.”
    “Where have you been since Thursday?”
    “None of your damn business.”
    “The police want to talk to you.”
    He leered at me, dropping his gaze to my legs and then letting it crawl back up. “They probably wanna talk to you too, sugar.”
    “I’m not a hooker.”
    He shrugged.
    “They thought you might be dead. And that Claire did it.”
    He managed something between a laugh and a snort. “She’s crazy enough.” He flipped off the bedside light, sprawled across the bed, and closed his eyes. “Turn out the lights.”
    “Don’t you care where she is?”
    “No.”
    “You don’t wonder why a stranger’s in your house?”
    “No.”
    “At least tell me where you’ve been.”
    “If I do, will you leave?”
    “Sure.”
    “Vegas.”
    I turned out the light. “Your wife’s in jail.”
    “About time.”
    I left through the kitchen, forgetting until the door closed behind me that I had no car. Rain had let up but the driveway was partly submerged and I accidentally sloshed into a puddle and waterlogged my shoes. Claire’s security lights got me to the end of the drive and then the neighborhood street lights took over from there. The block was stone silent, porch lights the only sign of life.
    My cell phone said it was quarter past four, but what startled me more was seeing the date, July thirteenth. In my haste to get away from Daniel, I’d forgotten it was my birthday.
    Joy
.
    Still fighting my stupid new nails, I successfully dialed my apartment on the second try but Jeannie didn’t answer. I figured she was sleeping hard and tried again, but there was still no answer.
    Next I tried her cell with the same result. Then I tried my apartment one more time.
    Maybe they’d stayed at Vince’s.
    “Emily?” he said, heavy sleep in his voice. “You okay?”
    “Fine,” I said, “But my Goldilocks gig is up. Papa Bear’s back.”
    “The husband?”
    “Yeah. A real charmer.”
    Vince exhaled, and I imagined him pushing back covers, sitting up. No shirt. An image so sexy it was cruel. “Where are you?”
    “Walking south on Larchmont.”
    “In
this
?”
    “In what?”
    “I swear, woman, you’re a handful. Try not to get blown away before I get there.”
    I didn’t know what that meant but was glad he was coming. A few blocks later I rounded the corner, continuing on the route I knew he’d use. Under street lamps, I saw that low-lying areas were submerged, and below me, the rapid
whoosh
of water pulsing through the neighborhood’s drainage system reminded me how much water had already receded.
    The temperature had dropped to probably the mid-eighties and the air was so thick and damp I thought I felt the smallest of rain drops on my face and bare arms. The unmistakable scent of steaming blacktop hung in the air as I passed sleeping houses and dormant cars. I didn’t hear a single motor anywhere. Nobody wanted to be out on a morning like this.
    Thoughts and counter-thoughts came at machine-gun pace, and I knew that only a long, hard run would organize them. But it would have to wait until I got home and could change. Nothing good ever came from running in mules.
    Instead I planned my day. Top priority was a visit to Platt’s