Page 28 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind
“Drive safe,” I say as they head to the door, mostly to stop things from getting too mushy. I’m not great at mush.
“We will!” Gemma says brightly, and Mel gives me a little wave.
Then they’re gone, their footsteps disappearing as they descend the steps, and I’m left alone once more.
7
IN WHICH HEIDI REMAINS SIGNIFICANTLY LESS PROFESSIONAL
Itrudge to my little bedroom, flopping face-first onto the bed. The space is mostly done in shades of white and cream, something I originally did because it was so small, but I ended up liking how calming it was. The decor is pretty minimal—a few plants, a white dresser, and a simple wall hanging—but I don’t need a lot, and I don’t need fancy.
After a few seconds of struggling to breathe due to the face full of pillow I’ve got, I roll over and then sit up. I dress quickly in my pajamas, hanging my robe on the clothes rack that’s set up in the corner. Then I flick the overhead light off, set my alarm clock, and crawl under the covers.
I’m about to drift off to sleep when I hear a distant squawk.
“Jojo,” I groan, pulling a pillow over my face.
Another squawk.
I don’t think he ever got his dinner in all the hubbub.
For a moment I debate with myself, running groggily through my options. But no matter how I look at things, Jojo does need to eat. He won’t die if I don’t feed him, but…I would feel bad.
Is it possible he possesses an as-of-yet unseen skill set that would allow him to get his own food? Could something like that have developed in him?
It seems unlikely.
“Fine,” I say. I unplug my phone, drag myself out of bed—my nice, warm, comfortable bed—and grumble my way out to the living room, sliding on the slippers that are by the front door.
Then I grumble all the way down the stairs, emerging from the stairwell with a scowl on my face. I round the counter, and when I come face-to-face with Jojo in his cage, he has the nerve to squawk at me and do that cute little head tilt he does.
“Stupid bird,” I say, even as I fill his food scoop up to the very top to make sure he gets enough to eat.
Once I’ve fed Jojo, I stand there in the dark for a few seconds.
I’ve always liked the shop at night. Don’t ask me why; I don’t know. People like to watch their loved ones sleeping—the chubby cheeks of their children, the slow breath of their lover—so maybe the shop at night is my version of that. I trail through the aisles, admire the swimming shadows, press a kiss to the forehead of my greatest achievement before tucking it in to rest.
I make my way slowly past the shelves, letting my fingers trail over the spines of the books as I walk. The used section is my favorite, so full of personality and lives already lived. Then I emerge from the stacks and find myself face-to-face with what I think was my destination all along: the café, and Carmina’s table, and the ghost of everything that happened here this morning.
I look around briefly and then sit on the floor, close to where Gemma sat and cried earlier, my back against the bookshelf.
The lamp light pouring in through the display windows blankets the tile in a yellow-orange glow; back in the kitchen, the refrigerator hums. All too clearly I can see Carmina, just as she was—slumped over at the table, skin pale, contents of her purse scattered everywhere. But my mind tries to superimpose another figure on the scene as well—me, unconscious, face up in front of the door, like Soren said.
What happened to me here?
I eye the entrance, my gaze lingering on the waist-high shelf next to the door. If I were hit over the head by someone, there might not be anything. But if I were pushed from behind…
I stand up so abruptly that my head spins for a second, and I bend over, putting my hands on my knees and waiting for the head rush to calm down. Then I hurry over to the shelf by the door, pulling my phone out.
What if my wound came from falling forward and hitting this shelf?
I shine my phone’s flashlight on the top edge of the shelf, leaning down so I can see better. It’s dark wood, but blood should be visible, shouldn’t it? I trail my light down the edge, further, further, until—
“Bingo,” I whisper.
There, on the corner of the shelf nearest the door, is a faint red smudge.
Blood.Myblood, probably.
