Lost Boy - Ker Dukey Page 0,44

you figure things out with the plumber?” I ask, leaning forward to steal her glass.

“Yeah. He said he could come by next week.”

“I still say we call the landlord.”

“Go ahead, bet he won’t get anyone here sooner.” She takes the glass from me, sipping the nectar. “Anything more happen with the sexy neighbor?” She licks her lips, looking up to the ceiling. I haven’t heard him come home yet—which is me being a stalker creep.

“What could have happened? It wasn’t like we went on a date. We went to scope out if Gaby was dead.” I roll my eyes, picking up her spoon and taking a bite of the apple pie. The sugar excites my tongue, and my stomach welcomes the food.

“He wants you so bad.” She pokes my thigh with her toe. The feeling is mutual. She shifts, looking over at me. “Do you think it’s weird he moved here around the time these murders started happening?” she muses.

Yes. “He said he came here for work,” I defend.

“What does he do?” She scoots up onto her elbows and opens her mouth for me to feed her a piece of the pie.

“I don’t know.” I didn’t ask after he said he wasn’t a cop. Why didn’t I ask?

My eyes flit to something over her head. “Oh my god.” I startle, pushing her legs off me and dumping the pie. Charlotte leaps up, a hand to her chest. “What?”

“Her light’s on,” I gasp. “The woman.” I point. “Her light is on.”

Taking attentive steps, we move to our window, looking across the divide. “What’s going on?” Charlotte breathes.

Forensics. Police. Detective Hernandez comes into view, looking back at us. He gestures that he’s coming over with a jab of his finger. “Can’t he use a damn phone? That’s creepy as hell after Lee.” Charlotte gulps, pushing her wine glass into my hand.

“Do you think she’s dead?” she asks, a tremor in her voice.

My chest ricochets from the pounding of my heart. “I hope not.”

I hand the jeans over. I had put them in a plastic bag when I got home this morning with the intention of taking them down to the station. Detective Hernandez stands at our window, looking over to the apartment now being searched for evidence.

“What’s going on with the woman’s apartment?” Charlotte asks, sitting on the arm of the couch.

“She’s been filed as a missing person as of this morning,” he informs us. His gaze locks on mine, concern etched in his brow. “I’m going to need you to tell me the last time you saw her.”

“She’s dead, isn’t she? He killed her too. Who’s next? Me?” I jab at my chest. “Charlotte?” I gesture to her.

He turns, giving us his full attention. “I have everyone looking. I’m stationing an officer outside your building.”

“This shouldn’t be happening,” I snap, panic sending me spiraling.

Holding his hands up as if to calm an erratic animal, he says, “I know things are tense right now.”

“Tense?” I laugh without humor. “Tense would be an understatement.” Rubbing my hands down my face, I pace to the coffee table, pour a drink, and gulp it down. “What’s going to happen to their pets? The women…the cats…Bruno…where is he now?” I ask, refilling the glass and passing it to Charlotte.

“Bruno?”

“The dog from this morning,” I retort, shaking my head. Am I descending into madness? How can he not know what the fuck I’m talking about? What kind of detective is he? The kind who gets your mother killed.

“We’ll try to place him with a relative of the deceased.”

Deceased. What a joke. The victim. “The murdered—let’s not sugarcoat things,” I bark.

“I understand your anger, Lizzy.”

Scoffing, I point my finger right in his face. “The hell you do. Did you have to listen while your mother was murdered? Hear the cries and gurgles while you hide, wetting yourself in fear?” Energy zaps through my blood stream, turbulent and unpredictable. “Listen while a woman you love is raped?” I choke on the words. “Cry until there’s no more water, leaving your throat so dry, it feels like you’re swallowing glass with every inhale?” Pain cuts into me, slicing, slicing, slicing. Will I ever be rid of this pain?

Charlotte stands, tears burning her eyes, the glass of wine shaking in her hands. “Lizzy?” she cries out on a broken wail.

“No, let me finish—let him hear my misery—my broken, fucked-up psyche,” I screech, pacing. “Want to see my scars?” I bellow, yanking up my sleeves and shoving my palms at him. “These