chest. He did not meet her eyes, and she had the strange sense that he was not so much avoiding her, but containing himself while he was around her.
In the strained silence, she looked around because it was a better option than staring at him. The commercial kitchen they’d taken refuge in had been long abandoned, and the exodus from its short-ceiling’d confines had been sloppy and rushed. There was trash everywhere, restaurant-sized, rusted-out cans of vegetables and containers of condiments littering the dusty counters and floors . . . broken plates, bowls, and glassware Humpty-Dumpty’ing in corners . . . discarded aprons and checkered chef pants molding up in mounds stained with food grime.
“Oh, my God . . .” she said as she pulled her hood off. “I know this place.”
She had been meaning to come here for months.
“You eat here when the restaurant was open?” he asked.
“No.” Not even close. “This kitchen has an interesting story attached to it.”
Refocusing on him, she frowned . . . and recalled a funny thing about chaotic environments. The eye noticed the details at first, but not always the pattern. That came later.
“You’ve been here, too,” she said. “Haven’t you.”
“No.”
“Then why are you sitting against a wall in a cleared space that precisely fits the dimensions of your frame?”
“Because it was the only open area and my legs are tired.”
“There’s a chair over there. And tired, my ass. You aren’t breathing hard. You didn’t breathe hard the entire time we were running.”
“That chair has three legs, and a person can have good lungs but bad quads.”
Jo crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. Then realized she was mirroring his pose. So she put her hands on her hips.
“If you haven’t been here before, how did you know where to find this place? And get inside?”
“Lucky guess. And I got you away from the police, didn’t I. Why ask questions about the solution to your problem—”
Before he could finish, the sound of a siren flared as what had to be a cop car came down the cramped lane. She prayed it kept going. It did not. There was a screech and then, from the opposite direction, another unit with its own siren going pulled up as well.
Jo focused on the kitchen’s battered door as if she could will the thing to stay closed. The trouble was, she knew that the cops were already familiar with this bolt-hole. They’d been here before, when those gang members had been beaten and killed. She’d read the article about the incident in the CCJ before she’d started to work at the paper—and then had followed up on it with other sources online, although not because of the deaths or the gang stuff.
Because of the vampire stuff.
It had turned out that a gang member who had survived was convinced he’d been attacked by vampires, and he had been prepared to talk about his experience. Paranormal enthusiasts online were the only ones who had cared about his story of fangs and fright, and she had ended up covering it all on her own blog, Damn Stoker.
There were so many things that didn’t add up in Caldwell. So many strange occurrences—
Her head started to hum, and she rubbed her temple with her free hand as her thoughts on the subject ground to a halt.
Whatever. She had other things to worry about at the moment. Like handcuffs and mug shots.
“Are they going to come in or not,” she whispered, aware that her gun was still against her palm.
When the man in leather didn’t respond to the rhetorical, she muttered under her breath and went over to a section of countertop. Dragging a dishwasher tray stack off to the side, she discovered that what was underneath was less grimy than most of her other options. Plus he was right. On second look, that chair did only have three out of four legs.
As she hopped up on the cold stainless steel, she let her legs swing until one of her feet knocked into a set of pans and knocked them off whatever they’d been balanced on. The clatter made her jump—and pray that the cops who had stopped outside didn’t hear the noise.
A moment later, instead of the door opening wide . . . the cars left, one by one.
Jo looked back at the man. “What did you do to them?”
“Nothing,” he said in a bored tone.
“What did you do to the other one?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.” She tilted her head to the