“You’re not.”
“Go home, dude. I’ll be okay.”
I make a show of releasing my grip on him and shift my weight back until I’m propped against the door. For a second, my gaze is caught on his lips. Am I ever going to kiss him again? Doesn’t seem likely. “Text me tomorrow.”
“Why?” He bends the word, like he’s about fourteen years old and caught in the grip of adolescent rebellion.
“So I know you’re not in a coma.”
He nods, takes a step back, and reaches into his backpack, pulling out a cherry red sucker. “Thanks, dude. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
He sticks the sucker between his lips and leaves me standing there with no idea at all what just happened. That seems to be a recurring theme in the ballad of Ezra Morgue. Huckaby. Whatever.
The whole train ride home, I go back and forth between telling Dorinda what happened and keeping my damn mouth shut, so obviously I run into her on the street outside our building.
“Good,” she says as soon as we lock eyes. “Have you eaten yet?”
“Sort of? I had a late lunch from the Brew so I’m not starving.” It’s dark and cold and the last thing I want to do iswalk to the nearest restaurant, even if it is only a couple blocks away.
“I should probably save the money.” She’s wearing a black wool coat with a scarlet scarf doubled up around her neck. Her perfect lipstick is the same shade of red; she either just fixed it or she’s got some kind of superpower.
“Long week?” I offer her my arm. “I’ll treat you to dinner.”
As expected, she smacks me. “Dumbass.”
“I’m serious.” Seriously laughing, maybe, and glad my sister’s around to distract me from whatever just happened back at the hospital.
“Nah, I’ve got half a burrito in the fridge from the other night. I won’t starve.”
Since she won’t let me treat her to dinner, I can at least open the door for her. Waving her through, I half-expect another swat. Instead, she’s eyeing the stairs. “Someday I want to live someplace with an elevator.”
She sounds tired. Hell, I’m tired too. I could offer to carry her up the stairs, or something equally stupid.Nah. Instead, I say, “I’ll race ya,” and take the first two steps in a single bound.
“Asshole.” Laughing, she grabs my jacket and elbows me out of the way, and like a couple of kids, we make a run for it.
I let her win because I’m not completely stupid.
The apartment door is open when I get there. Dorinda’s blocking my way, so I give her shoulder a push. “Lemme in.”
“Wait.” She manages to load that one word with a whole lot. I peer over the top of her head. The door opens directly into the living area, a small fixture immediately overhead lighting the entry while streetlights shine through the windows. The L-shaped couch splits the space, with the kitchen to my right and the television and small fireplace to the left.
Everything looks pretty much like it should. “What?”
“Look.” Dorinda points to our small dining table.
There, in the center of the table, is—
“What the hell?” I shift her to one side and cross the room to the corner floor lamp. Old building. Few overhead light fixtures. Fewer wall sockets. I get the place as bright as possible and there, on the dining table, is a framed photograph of a woman, the wordmurderedscrawled across the glass in what might be lipstick. “Who is that?”
My reach for the photograph stops short when Dorinda grabs my arm, her long, acrylic nails making a compelling argument. “Call the cops,” she says.
Which makes sense. Someone must have broken into our apartment, but—“We should look around some first.”
“And contaminate the crime scene?”
That tells me how stressed she is. If she had her public defender hat on, she’d know SPD couldn’t give two shits about a home break-in. “Let’s read the note, at least.”
There is a note in front of the picture, written on a torn sheet of lined paper.
