The Same Place (The Lamb and the Lion #2) - Gregory Ashe Page 0,95

been popular ten years before, a strip of perfect, thick green lawn, and flowerbeds popping with color—he recognized marigolds and petunias. Tean would have known all of them, he was sure. The trees were older in this part of the city, big and already thatched with leaves, so Jem parked in the shade and continued to study the house. The garage door was down, but through one of the house’s front windows he could see an immaculate living room, expensive-looking furniture, and a grand piano. The other front window opened onto a dining room with a table and chairs for twelve and a built-in china hutch that took up an entire wall. A breeze carried the smell of chlorine and fresh mulch and, from the trash cans lining the street, garbage warming in the sun. Children’s laughter came from the back yard.

Jem made his way down the sidewalk, trying to see into Brigitte’s backyard. The privacy fence blocked him. He walked the other direction and found the same problem. Instead of turning back, this time he kept going, following the sidewalk around the block. The ground sloped up. He turned on the next street and counted houses until he was pretty sure he was in the right spot, and then he did a quick double check: nobody else was on the street. He jogged between two of the homes. From the one on the right came the sudden burst of a vacuum coming to life and then shutting off again.

At the back of the lot, he could see down the hill and into Brigitte’s yard. Two towheaded kids were splashing in a huge inflatable pool, the kind Jem would have killed for as a kid. A woman was watching them from a patch of shade. She was blond, and Jem guessed she was in her forties, although it was hard to tell. Hard to tell much of her features, in fact, because she was wearing big sunglasses, but she was thin and well dressed, and she made him think of every other rich Mormon mommy in the valley. She looked familiar, but it might have been the perfect Mormon mommy getup; they all started to look alike after a while.

Jem jogged back to the sidewalk, went back around the block, and considered Brigitte’s house from the front. Half a dozen riffs were already starting—he could pretend his bike had broken down, could I please use your phone? Or he could simply risk entering the house by himself and hoping nobody else was inside—but then Jem dialed it all back and made himself take a deep breath. This bitch had stolen his life. There was no point in moving forward without more information, and she’d offered him plenty of it without even meaning to.

He flipped open the trash can in front of the house and ripped open the top bag. Kitchen trash and diapers. He gagged, wished he had a pair of the doc’s disposable gloves, and used the plastic bag to jostle the contents until he was pretty sure he hadn’t missed anything good. After removing that bag from the can, he pulled out the one that had been beneath it. When he glanced up, a woman in a housedress and curlers was standing at her mailbox, watching him.

Jem ripped the bag—a smaller opening this time—and was pleased to see a mixture of papers, Q-tips with orange smears of earwax, used razor cartridges, a pair of kid’s socks with holes in the heels, and plastic shrink wrap. Someone—the maid, Jem guessed—had collected all the upstairs trash in one bag. Bathroom, office, kids’ room. He tied a second knot to re-seal the torn part of the bag. When he looked up again, the woman in the housedress and curlers was gone. Jem tossed the other bag back in the can and hurried to the bike.

Balancing the bag across his lap, Jem drove down the block. He glanced back once, just to check, and swore under his breath. The blond woman had come outside and was staring at the trash can, her gaze moving to him. Her neighbor must have called to warn her about the prowler going through her trash. Jem whipped his head forward, turned at the end of the block, and sped up.

For lack of anywhere better to go, Jem returned to Tean’s apartment. A pair of picnic tables, the wood white from the sun and the benches sagging ominously, offered the only outdoor seating at the apartment building,