Free The Edge of Ruin by Melinda Snodgrass Page A

She’d always been suspicious of me. Probably with good reason.
    And I’d always disliked her. With good reason. Memories from childhood went stuttering through my head—Pamela humiliating me when I was seven by telling a table full of guests that I sang along whenever I watched
Mary Poppins
. Pamela, pompous at twelve, declaring that she had thrown away my Transformers because they were silly. I had raced to the curb and pushed over the garbage cans, but the truck had already gone by.
    It was gross having to touch the coat again. It probably couldn’t be salvaged. I just needed to throw it away. But it was my only navy blazer. I cringed on behalf of my credit cards as I considered buying another one. Then the phone was in hand, and I stopped worrying about clothes. What I was about to do would really give me something to worry about.
But only if they found out.
I really should have the courage to just discuss this with my father. My thumb depressed the speed dial button.
    He picked up on the second ring. “Weber.”
    “Hey, it’s me.”
    “Hey, Rhode Island, how you doing?”
    “Crappy. It hurts.”
    “Yeah, but consider the alternative. Hey, we got the shooter in the Mora case,” Weber added.
    I recalled the facts of the case—Edward Mora, age fifteen, dead on New Year’s Eve after a street drag race went bad. His mother had been nearly mad with grief. “Oh, good. Have you told Mrs. Mora?”
    “Yeah, and she turned up at booking with an antique cannon of a pistol ready to kill the perp.”
    “Oh, shoot.”
    “Fortunately not. I called in a psych team, and they took her off for observation.” My phone gave a faint beep.
    “Damn, my battery’s running down. Let me get to the point. My sister’s going to be turning up with a letter of resignation, my gun, and my badge.”
    “Shit.” There was a pause; then he said, “Well, maybe that’s for the best … considering … everything.”
    “I want you to throw away the letter and bring me back my stuff.”
    “Your father is going to fucking kill you.”
    “Only if he finds out, and if he does I can always blame you for intercepting it.”
    “Gee, thanks, you’re a real pal. But why?”
    “Because in a weird way being a cop gives me some cred I wouldn’t have otherwise. People will be less likely to think I’m a nut.”
    “What are you planning?”
    “I haven’t gotten as far as a plan. I’m just thinking right now. But I want my badge, and I especially want my gun. They’re going to try again.”
    “You’ve got security.”
    “Would you depend on that alone?”
    “Hell, no.”
    “I rest my case.”
    There was silence for a long moment. The phone bleeped again. I propped my shoulder against the full-length mirror at the back of the closet. I needed to get off my feet soon.
    “Okay, I’ll do it. If for no other reason than it will really piss off your sister.” We shared a laugh.
    “I’ve got to go.”
    I hung up, and that’s when I noticed the message icon on the screen. I called the voice mail center and waited through the female robot’s announcement of
“one call, received on January seventh at 1:55 P.M. ”
I had been in the kitchen of the Quincy house. The memory brought back the phantom smell of blood, and a sticky feeling on the back of my head.
    “Richard,” came Rhiana’s voice. She sounded frightened; she was almost whispering.
    The sound of her voice sent me swinging wildly between conflicting emotions. Regret that I hadn’t handled her better, fury over her betrayal, guilt that my behavior had led to the betrayal, and
way
down deep, the faint coil of attraction and arousal.
    “Richard,” she said again, as if repeating my name forged a link. “They’ve got someone to kill you. Someone in Albuquerque. I don’t want you dead. Be careful.”
    Great, why was my luck always so shitty? She couldn’t have called the day before?
    “
End of message. To delete press seven
…,” came the robotic voice.
    I pressed nine