Strike Me Down - Mindy Mejia Page 0,21

All I could see was the guy’s bloodstain in the carpet; all I could hear were his panting moans while we’d waited for the ambulance. Logan, however, dug her heels in.

“These are my roots. I’m not letting some crackpot scare me away from my own bed.”

She scoffed when I hired a real estate agent and started touring the new condo buildings in the revitalized Mill District. “They’re completely overpriced.”

Eight hundred thousand seemed like a lot of money then, even to me.

“They have doormen. And security systems.”

She wouldn’t admit it, but I wasn’t the only one who fell a little in love when we walked into the penthouse for the first time. Two stories, an open-concept space with exposed brick and hardwood floors, a soaking tub with one-way glass views of the Mississippi, all high above the prying eyes of obsessed fans.

Logan kept the apartment on the north side, just to prove she didn’t have to give it up, and she went there from time to time over the years, maybe to train, maybe to remember. I didn’t ask. I just moved our lives across the river, only a few blocks from where—less than two decades later—Strike Down would be held.

The night was muggy and airless as I walked the few blocks from U.S. Bank Stadium and fobbed into our building. Nodding to the night security guard, I took the elevator to the top floor.

Logan, who never slept anymore, was still up. The rowing machine whirred rhythmically from the gym, probably waking the downstairs neighbors, who had learned long ago not to complain. I should have gone straight to her and showed her the email from Parrish, watched her reaction when I told her the prize money was missing, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not yet. I went to the bar and poured myself a scotch, then took it to the terrace and stood at the railing overlooking the water.

Pillsbury’s Best and Gold Mill Flour glowed from opposite banks of the river. Of all the condos we’d seen after a man stabbed himself on our carpet, I knew I wanted this one. This was where the Mississippi had powered the flour mills for a hundred years, where empires were ground from wheat and water. Minneapolis had once been the biggest flour producer on the planet, feeding a world that hungered for bread. It sounded as wholesome as it must have looked—a wintry prairie town where flour dust whirled like snow in the air. Every empire, though, is combustible. Maybe it’s twenty million dollars. Maybe it’s enough flour to turn a mill into a powder keg. But one day in 1878, on this very spot, someone lit a match.

“What are you doing?”

I hadn’t heard the rower fall silent. Logan stood in the doorway to the terrace, arms crossed and barefoot. Years of relentless training, even after she’d retired from the sport, had sculpted her beauty into more exquisite detail. The lines of her body were unforgiving. A perfect column of sweat darkened her wife beater from chest to groin.

“Having a drink,” I said. “I just got home.”

“It’s two in the morning.”

“I’m aware of that.” I swirled the liquid, setting its sharp smoke loose. “Everyone asked about you today. They all wanted to know where you were.”

“I’m sure you told them something. Spun it just right, the way you always do.”

There was a fight waiting underneath the words. She wanted me to confront her, to attack, but I couldn’t afford the battle. Not in the face of a war.

I took a breath. There was no more delaying what had to be done. “There’s a meeting at nine a.m. with some accounting consultants. After your early class.”

“Sounds thrilling.”

“Will you please attend? It’s important. The prize money for the tournament, it’s …” She tilted her head, waiting, until I finally admitted. “It’s gone.”

I expected her to act shocked or confused, to drill me with questions about what happened, but she didn’t. Instead, a ghost of a smile crossed her face and I felt my gut clench.

“For you, darling? Of course.”

“Okay. Good.” I downed another mouthful of liquor, watching her turn to go inside. “I know this year hasn’t been easy—”

It was the wrong thing to say. She froze and every muscle on her body seemed to tense, or maybe she didn’t even know how to relax anymore. “Don’t say another word.”

“—but it’s been months.”

She turned and there was murder in her eyes. “You don’t know anything.”

The scotch seeped into my stomach, peaty