out at a loved one in the throes of a nightmare. Eleanor was wrapped in fear....
And nothing but a chickenshit.
She might hate herself more now than when she’d found out Skeeter had been screwing Shellee.
The door squeaked open and her heart leaped.
But it was Pansy. “You okay?”
Eleanor shook her head. “No.”
“Anything I can do?”
“Watch the store for a few days?”
“Is everything okay? Dez looked—”
“No, it’s not okay,” Eleanor said. “I’m either the savviest woman—able to anticipate forthcoming heartache—or I’m the biggest dumb ass in the world.”
Her friend’s eyes were as soft as the blue quilt hanging in the vintage linens section of the store. “Oh, Elle, hon. What have you done?”
“I’ve done what I’ve always done. I’ve protected myself.”
“I’d say something clever here, but you’d probably throw something at me, and I happen to know that Swingline stapler is heavy. So, I’ll just be your friend and run next door for muffins.”
Eleanor put her head on her desk and cried as the door clicked closed.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
TRE STOOD IN FRONT of the dilapidated housing project, and swallowed fear. Only a few units had remained after the storm hit seven and a half years ago, and the building where his mother had died was one of them.
For whatever reason, some politician thought this particular unit could be turned into a set of offices for the Housing Authority, but it had never happened. The other projects around the city had been torn down, and the office repurposing had gotten bogged down in red tape, so here the old unit sat, sad, decaying, but stalwart against the elements.
No one had lived in them since Katrina...other than the occasional vagrant who was rousted by patrols. Rusted padlocks refused outsiders entry, but there were always ways to get past locks when one lived in the streets.
Tre could easily get inside.
If he could make his feet move.
Maybe the old T-shirt hiding the things he’d taken would still be inside, hidden beneath moldering carpet in the floor of the old front closet. Or maybe some street person had already found the hidey-hole and added the stolen goods to his cart of cans and worn clothing.
Tre hadn’t a clue because every time he got within a block of the place, he started shaking so bad he could hardly move. Didn’t matter what he told himself—that the memories should be gone by now—he still shook like an addict detoxing.
Hard, cold fear sat like an iron ball in his gut, but after facing what he had over a week ago, after staring down death and knowing he could do more than run, he’d found the courage to face his past. He wanted to do it for the woman who’d cared enough to sit beside him at that police station and refused to allow him to go down for something he hadn’t done.
He’d feared her all these years, even after he’d gone to work for her. He still couldn’t figure out why he’d walked into her store that day months ago. He’d had no intention of applying for a job. No intention of engaging Eleanor in any way. But it had to have been a God thing—that’s what Big Mama would say.
And walking into the Queen’s Box for the second time had changed his world.
Now it was time to give back to her what he’d taken in desperation.
Because it was time to move on. He’d grabbed on to hope with both hands and he wasn’t letting go of a future for himself.
Night was a cloak for activities no one wanted anyone to witness, but it was also a dangerous time on these particular streets. Years ago, Tre had worried about his bright T-shirt standing out in the darkness. This time a wiser Tre had worn dark clothes and old sneakers. He carried an empty sling backpack he’d scored at a health fair and Big Mama’s .38 Special in the waistband of his jeans.
If he got picked up with a concealed weapon, his phone call would have to be to an attorney rather than Eleanor. Of course, his boss had been in Florida for the past several days....
Tre circled the abandoned building, his ear cocked for any weird sounds. Hearing nothing out of the ordinary, he slipped toward a bottom window that looked to have been jimmied and carefully camouflaged, likely by a homeless person, or maybe even some kids buying and selling drugs.
Tre pulled himself through the window, grimacing as it creaked, and cast a quick glance up at the flaking fire