Dying Echo A Grim Reaper Mystery - By Judy Clemens Page 0,29
here’s what we’ll do. You have a phone?”
“Of course.”
Of course. Like everybody had one. Well, she supposed, every normal person did. Actually…“I think the landline is still on in the house. Ricky kept everything going in case I came back. So I can call you if I need to, right?”
“But—”
“And you can go stay in my brother’s house.”
He wrinkled his nose.
“Or you can find a hotel. But Eric, you can’t stay here. Not tonight.” Maybe not ever.
He sighed. “Fine. But you have to promise to call if you need me.”
“I promise. All right? Now here’s the key to his house.” She gave him directions, as well as her phone number, which was burned into her brain from Before.
He plugged the number into his iPhone, which looked exactly like Death’s replica, and scribbled his on the back of a gas receipt. “Casey Maldonado? Or Kaufmann? Or should we simply go with Smith?”
A joke. Sort of. That was how she’d first introduced herself to him way back three weeks ago—it felt like three years. And he’d told her his name was Eric Jones. Cute. A far cry from VanDiepenbos.
She glanced at the mailbox, which had the house number, but no last name. “Maldonado. My last name is Maldonado. My husband’s name.”
Eric became very busy inputting the information. “How about I use all three? That way I’m sure to know I’ll get one of you.” He shifted on his feet, looking even more like a child waiting for recognition. But at the same time like a man, with strong arms and kind eyes and warm skin…
“Goodnight, Eric.”
He looked around at the street and the house, but not at her. “All right. I’ll see you in the morning. Unless you call me.”
“Do you have a car?”
He gestured to a generic gold Taurus. Rental.
“How about you come get me at eight-forty-five?”
“I can come earlier.”
“No, that will be fine. I—we—have an appointment at nine.”
“Okay. Should I eat breakfast first? Or will we be eating there?”
The poor boy. He had no idea what he was asking. “Eat first. You won’t want even one bite at the place we’re going.”
He nodded, looking at his car, his keys, the sidewalk. “You sure I can’t—”
“Goodnight, Eric.”
He stopped speaking and studied the car key like it held the answers to the universe. “Goodnight, Casey.” He got in the car and pulled slowly away. From the shape of his silhouette as he drove, Casey could tell he was watching her in his rear view mirror.
And then he turned the corner and was out of sight.
Chapter Fourteen
The house didn’t smell like tamales.
It smelled like cleaning solution. Not the same combination as at her mother’s house. More like how she’d left Ricky’s. Clean and fresh, and sterile. No actual life. Not even a fern.
Casey had dreaded that first step into the kitchen, the room she entered from the back door. She’d used the key from the garage, the one hidden under the tee ball stand Omar had never had the chance to break. The key slid in easily, and the doorknob turned like it had been used daily over the past two years.
The kitchen felt strange. Not strange as if something were wrong. Just…alien. No familiar odors. No well-worn articles of clothing strewn across the backs of chairs. No food crumbs or dishes on the counter. It was a show home, which was what she’d wanted Ricky to make it into. Something that could be bought and sold, as if it meant nothing more than a piece of paper declaring it real estate.
She wandered into the living room. Again, nothing personal. No pictures of her family. No Taste of Home or Hapkido Times magazines on the coffee table. No shoes left in the middle of the room. There was an afghan on the back of the couch, one her grandmother had made. But that held only memories of her childhood. None from the years with her own family. Omar had been too tiny for the heavy blanket, which had been crocheted for Casey’s father, a large man who favored black and hunter green. A memory did float up of a child-made fort, made with Ricky, the afghan serving as the roof. It had been too heavy to stay up, and she and Ricky had fought about how best to use it in their construction. For some reason she’d inherited it when her dad died. Nobody had ever really used it since.
She went through the front hallway and stared up the hardwood steps. The upstairs.