Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet - Darynda Jones Page 0,12

find out everything you can about her. I need family members, work and volunteer history, parking tickets, whatever you can get.”

“You got it. Where are you going now?” she asked as I headed for the door.

“Harper believes someone is trying to kill her, so I’m taking her to the safe house.”

“Sounds like a plan.” After the door clicked closed, she yelled out, “We have a safe house?”

3

Welcome back.

I see the assassins have failed.

—T-SHIRT

After a battle of epic proportions, where my legs wanted to go one way while my head told them to go another, I strode with Harper past my dad’s bar and down the alley toward our makeshift safe house. I couldn’t help but scan the terrain like a soldier in hostile territory. Oddly enough, Harper did the same thing. We looked like tweakers as we passed businesses, college students, and the occasional homeless person.

I decided to try to lighten the mood. “So, what did you always want to be when you grew up?” I asked Harper.

She walked beside me, arms crossed at chest, head down, and fought to smile.

“It’s just up here,” I said, saving her from having to respond. “Pari’s a saint. Only with full sleeves and a bad attitude. Other than that, you can totally count on her. Mostly for questionable advice, but we all have to be good at something, right?”

“Do you think you’ll catch him?” She couldn’t quite wrap her head around anything other than her immediate danger. Clearly she did not suffer from ADD.

“I’m going to do my best, hon. Cross my heart.”

“I’m so tired of feeling helpless. Guess I should’ve taken karate or something, huh?”

I liked her thought process, but even martial arts didn’t guarantee a long and prosperous life. “Don’t beat yourself up over this, Harper. There are crazy people out there. People you can’t reason with or even begin to understand without being a licensed psychotherapist. There’s no telling what set this guy off.”

She nodded, acceding to my expertise on crazy people. I grew up with one in the form of Denise Davidson, the stepmother from hell. She could teach the son of Satan a thing or two.

“Here it is,” I said, pointing to a screen door. Remnants of red paint framed the wood around the back entrance.

Harper stopped and looked around the alley. We were at the back entrance of a seedy tattoo parlor. Her confidence in me seemed to wane a bit.

“It’s totally safe. I promise.”

After a hesitant nod, she said, “Okay. I trust you.”

Maybe she really was crazy. “And Pari has a really cute apprentice.”

A shy grin spread across her face. She seemed so innocent and unworldly, yet she was simply beautiful. I wondered what her life had been like. Hopefully, I’d find out as the case went on.

“A teacher.”

I was just about to open the door when she’d spoken. “I’m sorry?”

“A teacher. You asked me what I’d always wanted to be. A teacher.”

I gave her my full attention. “Why didn’t you become one?”

She shrugged and looked elsewhere. “My mother didn’t approve. She wanted me to be a doctor or a lawyer.”

While I couldn’t imagine her as a lawyer, I could definitely see her as a doctor. She seemed the nurturing type. Then again, doctors weren’t all that nurturing. Maybe a nurse. Still, I could definitely see her as a teacher. She would’ve made a great one. “I hope all your dreams come true, Harper.”

“Thank you,” she said in surprise. “I hope yours do, too.”

I offered an appreciative smile. “Most of mine involve a man who is more trouble than he’s worth, but it’s a nice thought.”

She laughed softly, covering her mouth with a hand. Her mouth was too pretty to be covered.

We stepped inside Pari’s shop. She had a desk up front, but her office sat in the back, past the studio, a corner space the size of a moth’s testicles with a nice view of the Dumpster across the alley. I heard a few huffing sounds coming from underneath the desk, so I strolled in, half hoping to catch her doing something illicit. Her apprentice was hot.

She had computer guts scattered over her desk. Wires and gadgets of all shapes and sizes littered every available inch of counter space.

It seemed like every time I walked into her parlor, she was busy with something technical, which seemed to go against the grain of her artistic nature. Then again, she always was a little grainy.

A thumping sound wafted toward me, eliciting an evil grin. I was such