Ricky a noogie, her arm around his throat and her knuckle rubbing his head. His face was scrunched up—just like Omar’s—and he was laughing. Their mother sat on a lawn chair to the side, her hand over her mouth, her eyes dancing. Reuben had taken the picture one Sunday afternoon when they’d all had dinner together.
That photo, also, got flipped over.
“That’s it?” Death said, for after that photo there were just papers. “Great. More boring stuff, just like you.”
“I never said you had to stay.”
“How about turning on the TV? Maybe that wrestling channel, if they have it.”
Casey pretended not to hear, and looked through the papers. Don had sent her all the information she could possibly need about where her money was stored. Banks, stocks, mutual funds…
Death gave a sharp clap. “Are we rich?”
“I am.”
“Thank God. Maybe now we can stay somewhere with a little class.”
Casey picked up the letter from Ricky, and tried to ignore the tears that welled in her eyes. How long since she’d seen him? How long since she’d even heard his voice? A little over a week ago, when she was back in Ohio and she’d talked to him on the phone. It felt like much longer. He’d begged her to come home. To take her house off the market. To get her life back.
Impossible, now, even if she didn’t have to worry about Pegasus tracking her down to silence her. Now she was a fugitive. Wanted by the law. A killer.
Dear Sis, the letter said. Here’s your stuff. Interesting how it came to me. I’d like to hear that story some time, about you and this guy Eric. From the way he talked about you, I don’t think he views you as just a friend.
How could he? Besides their moment of passion, he’d seen her kill a man, and together they’d witnessed another violent death. Those kinds of things tended to be bonding experiences. So however Eric viewed her, it was definitely not as a friend. Not anymore.
So here’s your stuff. I hope Don can get it to you. I’m sure you miss it. I washed everything, so at least that should save you one trip to the Laundromat, wherever you are. You know, your own washer and dryer are sitting in your house, waiting to be used. As are your stove, and your fridge, and your stereo.
Casey noticed he didn’t mention her bed. He would know she wouldn’t ever want to use that again. Not without Reuben.
I’m trying to keep up with your lawn, but the flowerbeds are getting so overgrown I’m afraid of what I might find in there. Mowing two yards and keeping the weeds away from both could be a full-time thing, if I let it, which I can’t, since I do have an actual job, you know. Your house still hasn’t sold. Not that you’ll see me crying over that, even if I am whining about the landscaping.
If it were up to Ricky, he’d take the house off the market altogether, and wait for her to come home. She kept telling him that wasn’t going to happen. And he kept ignoring her.
Mom misses you. I miss you.
Oh, God, she missed them, too.
She rubbed her eyes. Maybe Don was right. Maybe she should go home. Give herself up. Tell the truth. Hope the word of Eric, added to her own, would keep her out of jail. Get her life back on track.
Not that that was possible. Her life had been knocked far, far off track, and she couldn’t ever see it going straight again. If she did head home, even with Eric’s testimony, she’d be lucky if she were out on parole in fifteen years.
Casey glanced at the clock. Almost ten. Check-out was at eleven. Hardly time to get in a workout and a shower. She pulled the chair out from the little table and sank into it, considering her options. She couldn’t stay at the Rest E-Z. Don knew where she was. Not that she expected him to send the cavalry after her, or even come himself, but it wasn’t fair to him to have to hide what he knew. She needed to go somewhere else, far away, so he could honestly claim ignorance. The problem was, she couldn’t use her own ID to get a decent hotel room, or the cops would find her.
With a regretful glance at her Dobak, Casey picked out some clean clothes and headed for the shower.