The Dead Girls Club - Damien Angelica Walters Page 0,17

Again. I fetch plates, carry them into the breakfast nook, and return for silverware.

“This isn’t just for an estimate,” he says. “She hired me over the phone. I’m going tomorrow morning to start measuring.”

“I thought you were helping Mike this week with their kitchen rehab?”

“I still am, afterward. Mike’s fine with it.”

I’d hope so, since Ryan isn’t charging his brother a dime. A knife turns in my hand, catching the light and my reflection, and I shiver.

“Look,” he says. “I know it isn’t a paycheck now, and I called Gerald again today. He’s sending the check tomorrow.”

The oldest excuse in the book, but I say, “It’s fine.”

“I can tell it isn’t.”

“Please,” I say. “I don’t want to fight. I am happy for you. It was a long day, I’m tired, and I want to change out of these clothes.”

“Right,” he says, turning away.

I pinch my lower lip between my teeth. “I’m sorry,” I say, pushing softness into my words. “Today was a rough one.”

He turns back, his head cocked. “Another one? You okay?”

“Mm-hmm.” The lie is battery acid and sandpaper, and I’d like nothing more than to drop to my knees and spill the whole story. But at this point, where would I start? The necklace? Or the murder? “I’m … edgy and out of sorts. I’ll finish setting the table when I come down.”

“The chicken should be ready by then. Do you give up yet?” he says, stiff but not exactly angry, and it takes me a second to understand. Our game.

“Can I get another hint?”

He grins, and I pretend there’s no strain behind it. “Going up, or going all the way down with a little help?” he says, spinning one finger in a circle.

“That’s helpful,” I say.

Turning back to the counter, he starts humming, but I can’t hear him once I’m out of the room and upstairs. It would be different if we had kids; the house would never be quiet. Luckily Ryan and I were on the same page. It’s for the best, really. I don’t think I’d be a very good mother.

I mull Ryan’s hint while I change into a T-shirt and leggings. The spinning finger. A helicopter? Tied somehow with an elevator and faulty wiring? I leave my earrings on my dresser, not wanting to open my jewelry box.

Children in an elevator. Children in an elevator hanging below a helicopter. Fire. The pieces come together, revealing a small but significant section of the whole, and I walk back downstairs with confidence. “The Towering Inferno?”

He makes a small bow. “The lady wins this round. Ball is now in your court.”

To be fair, if it hadn’t been one of his favorites—he has a quirky predilection for disaster movies, especially the old ones—I wouldn’t have had a clue.

My phone vibrates with a new email, and I do a double take at the subject line: INFORMATION YOU REQUESTED. I open the file attachment with a mix of dread and anticipation. Let’s see what sixty dollars buys.

Apparently, a list. Phone numbers and addresses for over a dozen Lauren Thomases. And I don’t even know if the right Lauren is here. I should’ve known better. Nothing’s ever that easy.

“Everything okay?”

Ryan’s a foot away, holding a plate of chicken, and I turn my phone so the screen isn’t visible. “What?”

“You were frowning.”

“No, everything’s fine,” I say, taking the plate from his hands.

Everything’s perfectly fine.

* * *

Viewed at a quick glance, the four-story Silverstone Center with its old brick, dormer windows, and room-sized porch could be a bed-and-breakfast, like many others in Annapolis, and to be fair, it was before the owners sold it, after it proved too out of the way. Tourists wanted West and Main Streets, restaurants and crab cakes, the shops and harbor, all within easy walking distance.

But the reason for the failure made it perfect for its new purpose: a private substance abuse facility funded primarily by a family whose teenage daughter had overdosed several years prior. Look past the well-manicured hedges and see wire mesh in the windows, an intercom next to the front door, a keypad beside the back. Wrought-iron fencing with spiked posts enclosing the front lawn. Since its opening, I’ve worked a half day here every Friday.

Although it’s not yet nine AM and the sky is clouded with gray, there’s a girl sitting on the lawn beneath a tree, a book in her lap. She glances up as my car creeps down the driveway—not for her benefit, but because the path is narrow. She’s not