Lost Boy - Ker Dukey Page 0,35

I wonder if the cats are hungry, if they have enough to see them through until their owner comes home.

I detour from my route, hurrying toward a nearby shop, the florescent lights offering safety from the darkness outside. Counting my change, I cringe. Nearly two dollars. I find the cheap tuna on the back of a shelf and huddle to the checkout.

When I make it to the apartment building Lee will never return to, sickness churns my stomach. Asking Charlotte to come with me is a no go, so I guess it’s on me.

Trying the handle, my heart skips seeing the latch broken. Anyone can just walk right inside this building. Nerves jump around inside me like grasshoppers. What if her apartment door has been locked now? I reach Lee’s floor, my heart racing. What will the woman think when she comes home to learn Lee’s dead? My teeth sink into my bottom lip, piercing the skin and drawing blood when I see her door ajar. Is she home? Should I knock? Raising my hand, I go to rap my knuckles, but the door gives way, opening up. A silhouette stands there, a crooked brow frowning at me. “Lizzy?”

“Detective Hernandez,” I breathe, clutching the strap of my laundry bag.

“What are you doing here?” we say in unison. I hold the can of tuna and shrug. Opening it, I place it down by the door. “I was worried about the cats. Lee, the man who died, was supposed to be checking in to feed them.”

“Right.” He nods. “I’ll call animal control.”

“Why? Isn’t the woman who lives here going to be home soon?”

He looks over his shoulder into the apartment, then steps out onto the landing, pulling the door closed. “Actually, we’re having trouble locating her.”

Thud. Thud. Thud.

“I thought she was away on a business trip?” Is it getting hot? My cheeks burn as my head swirls.

“Supposedly, but the hotel she booked doesn’t have it on their system that she ever checked in.”

Why is he being so forthcoming with information? “Do you think something happened to her?”

“I’m hoping not.”

My mind races. “What about the blood? On the petal.”

“I was going to come to see you about that. The sample came back with a match.”

Wow, this is it. It’s Willis. I know it.

“Who?” I say forcefully, refraining from reaching out and shaking him for the answer.

“You,” he says, studying me for a reaction.

Gasping, I step back, darkness closing in, threatening to consume. What? It can’t be. “How?” He reaches for my hand, turning my palm up. Tiny scabs litter my flesh from me re-opening old scars over and over. I have to go. I tug my hand free and run down the stairs, spilling into the street, almost falling to the ground. I still, grasping for air. Something moves behind me, so I dart toward my building without looking to see who or what it is. Only feet from my building, I break into a stride and grab the handle as my heart warns it’s about to burst from my chest. Someone reaches out for the handle at the same time, and I screech, spinning to face them with my hands out in a defensive manner, the laundry bag still in my grip. Green Eyes? What the hell? He steps back and holds his hands up in surrender. My nerves are fried, and my heart is in my mouth. “Are you following me?” I accuse, my breath ragged.

“No,” he answers, matter-of-factly.

Detective Hernandez watches us from the front of the other building, then walks toward us. “Everything okay?”

“Fine.” I shake my head in dismissal, wanting to be away from him—from everyone.

“Mr. Clark,” Hernandez says, turning his attention on Green Eyes. Mr. Clark?

“All good, Detective.” His tone is calm, soft.

“Are you going inside?” Hernandez asks.

“Yes,” both Mr. Clark and I say at the same time. I dart my gaze to his, which is already focused on me. He moves forward again, and I move out of the way, allowing him to open the door for us. The door slams behind us, Detective Hernandez watching through the glass panel.

As we take the stairs, my cheeks flame and a million-questions zip through my brain. “So, Mr. Clark?” I ask, my voice shaky. “That’s your name?”

“One of.” He smiles, and it’s breathtaking and haunting all at once.

“What does that even mean?” I scoff.

The pulse in his neck bulges as he ponders my question. “It means sometimes there’s a more complicated answer and people aren’t ready to hear it.”

“Am