Текст книги "Sixth Grave on the Edge"
Автор книги: Даринда Джонс
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
“Excuse me, busboy,” I said, snapping my fingers in the air to get his attention.
He ignored me, but I caught the grin he was wearing. I also felt the pleasure my attention gave him. It radiated from his essence and brushed over my skin like hot silk.
“Busboy,” I repeated, snapping more loudly. “Over here.”
He finally apologized to the flirty foxes, explaining that his heart belonged to another before he strolled to our table. “Busboy?” he asked, stopping in front of us and leveling a look of concern on a red-faced Cookie.
She took another sip and waved a hello.
I gestured to his apron. “You look like a busboy.”
“In that case, can I clean anything for you?”
“You can clean your dirty mind,” I said, teasing him. “Having fun?” I indicated the table with a nod.
“They were complimenting my cooking.” He leaned in very close. “According to consensus, I’m really good at scrambling things.”
They’d nailed that one. He was really good at scrambling my insides. My emotions. My girlie bits. “That’s wonderful,” I said, pretending not to care, “but we need lunch.”
“Didn’t you hear? I’ve been demoted to busboy, so you’ll have to ask your server about lunch. I don’t think busboys can take orders.”
I pulled the apron string in much the same way as the flirt did. “You’ll take my order, and you’ll like it.”
A soft, deep laugh reverberated out of him. “Yes, ma’am. Can I suggest the Santa Fe chicken with Spanish rice?”
“You can, but I’ll have the margarita chicken with fries smothered in red chile.”
“I’ll have the Santa Fe chicken,” Cookie said quickly, so falling for his ploy. He’d probably ordered too many chickens from Santa Fe and now had to hand-sell them to get rid of them. How different could chickens raised in Santa Fe be?
He flashed her a grin that was so beautiful, my heart skipped several pertinent beats. “Santa Fe chicken, it is. Would you like iced tea with that?” he asked me. When I hesitated, trying to decide between tea and an extra-large nonfat mocha macchiato with caramel sauce on the bottom and a dollop of whipped cream, he said, “It’s a yes/no question.”
I almost burst out laughing. Ever since he proposed to me on a sticky note, he’d been asking me a lot of yes/no questions to reiterate the fact that his proposal was also a yes/no question.
I shrugged. “Sometimes it’s not that black-and-white.”
“Sure it is.”
Cookie, knowing where this was headed, decided to study her menu again.
“Then my answer is yes.”
He stilled, waiting for the punch line. He knew me very well.
“Yes, I’ll have tea with my lunch and an extra-large nonfat mocha macchiato with caramel sauce on the bottom and a dollop of whipped cream after.”
Without missing a beat, he said, “Tea, it is.”
He started to turn, but I stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “You seem—” I lowered my voice. “—warmer than usual.”
“I’m always okay,” he said, mimicking what I’d said to Cookie earlier. He caught my hand in his and brought the back of it to his lips, kissing it softly. The heat from his mouth was searing.
It wasn’t until Reyes walked away that I realized the room had grown silent. Every eye was on us. Well, every female eye was on us. I glanced at Jessica and our gazes locked for an uncomfortable moment. She was jealous, and that fact didn’t make me happy. Why was she jealous when she didn’t have any claim to Reyes? Then again, jealousy was in a whole category by itself. One that sat right between instability and insecurity. But her jealously raked across my skin like fingernails.
Jealousy from Reyes was one thing, but jealousy from humans had a different taste, a different texture. It was hot and abrasive, like putting on scratchy burlap clothes right out of the dryer.
“When are you going to answer him?” Cookie asked, drawing my attention.
“When he deserves an answer,” I volleyed.
“So, saving your life countless times doesn’t warrant an answer?”
“Sure it does, but he doesn’t need to know that.”
One corner of her mouth tilted mischievously. “True.”
And that was one thing I never felt from Cookie. Jealousy. She was just as hot for Reyes as anyone, but she was never jealous of our relationship. She was happy for me, and therein lay the heart of a true friend. I’d thought Jessica was my best friend, but looking back with my 20/20 hindsight, I realized I’d felt jealousy radiate from her on several occasions in school. That should have been a clue, but I’d never been accused of being the brightest bedspread in the hotel.
“Okay, how are you going to get him over?”
“Well, since he lives right next door, I thought I’d just pound on the wall.”
“Not Reyes. Robert.”
Who was Robert again? Oh, right. “You let me worry about Uncle Bob.”
Cookie was getting nervous for the seven millionth time, so I went through my plan again from beginning to end. I loved going over it anyway. Mostly because it was brilliant, but also because if Cookie didn’t go along with it, all that brilliance would go down the drain, kind of like my self-esteem every time I ran into Jessica.
“This first date is just the primer. I’ll get him over right as your date is picking you up. He’ll be so blindsided, he won’t know how to react. What to say.” I giggled like a mental patient at that. “I’ll explain to him that you joined a dating service.”
“What?” Cookie balked. “He’ll think I’m desperate.”
“He’ll think you’re ready for a relationship.”
“A desperate one.” She fanned herself with the menu, her doubt evident in every swish.
“Cook, lots of people join dating services. It doesn’t have the stigma it used to.”
“Then what?”
“Then you’ll go on another date.”
“With the same guy?”
“Nope, a different guy.”
Fear caused panic to spike inside her. “What? Who? You said this would be quick and painless.”
“It will be. I’m not sure who date number two will be. I have only so many friends who will let me use them unscrupulously.”
Cookie groaned.
“This will work, Cook. Unless you want to do something really crazy and just ask him out yourself?”
“I couldn’t,” she said, shaking her head vehemently. “What if he says no? And then it would be really awkward between us for the rest of our lives. We’d have those awkward silences that make my eyebrows sweat.”
“Oh, yeah, those are pretty awful. Anywho, it’s date number three that will be the clincher. If he doesn’t ask you out before then, we may have to hire an actor.”
“An actor?”
“Cook, we’ve already been through this. Why are you questioning everything?”
“I think I’ve been in denial. But now that it’s really happening, I feel like those people who say they can bungee jump, but when they’re actually standing on the bridge, the reality of the situation hits them in the face.”
“Yeah, never bungee jump. Reality isn’t the only thing that hits you in the face.”
“At least the bungee rope didn’t leave a scar.”
“Thank goodness. So, for date number three, we need someone good. Someone who can be sexy and a butthead at the same time. Someone—” It hit me before I even finished the thought. “I got it.”
Cookie lunged forward. “Who?”
A slow, evil grin spread across my face. “Never you mind, missy. If we get that far, you’ll know soon enough. In the meantime, I have some bargaining to do.”
A loud bout of laughter echoed around me, and I glanced toward Jessica’s table. She was with the same three friends she was always with, and it made me wonder what they did for a living. They came to lunch here together almost every day. And were often here in the evenings as well. Did none of them have families? Responsibilities? A life?
I thought back to our big blowup in high school. Jessica had said some pretty nasty things. She’d turned on me so fast, my neck hurt. As well as my heart. A fact that she seemed to revel in. When I confronted her and asked her point-blank why she didn’t want to be friends, she told me I had no redeeming qualities. What the hell did that mean?
Cookie noticed where I was looking. She patted my hand to draw me back.
“Do you think I have redeeming qualities?”
She curled my fingers into hers. “You’re totally redeemable. You’re like a thirty percent–off coupon. No! A forty percent–off coupon. And I don’t say that lightly.”
“Thanks.”
Again, I felt Reyes’s heat before I saw him. He brought out our food personally, a service Jessica and her friends didn’t receive. Neither did the silver foxes, though they didn’t seem to mind. They kept winking at him, and one licked her lips suggestively. It was so wrong.
“Oh,” I said after he set our plates down, “I forgot to ask you. If you were a utensil, what would you be?”
He straightened. “Excuse me?”
“A utensil. What would you be?”
He crossed his arms over his chest, then asked suspiciously, “Why do you want to know?”
“It’s for a quiz. It’s guaranteed to let us know if we are compatible. You know, for the long haul.”
“Really?” he asked. He pulled out a chair, turned it around, and straddled it to sit with us. “You have to take a quiz to see if we’re compatible?”
“Yes,” I said, trying to recover from that last move. He was just too sexy, straddling that chair, crossing his sinewy arms over the back of it. “Yes. This stuff is important, and they have a ninety-nine percent success rate. It said so.” I dragged out my phone, brought up the online quiz, and held it out to him. “Right here. See?”
He didn’t even spare it a glance. Cookie was busy cutting into her Santa Fe chicken and fending off an inappropriate smirk.
“You can’t trust anything on the Internet.”
“Can, too,” I said, completely offended.
“So, if I posted a comment saying I was an Arabian prince from Milwaukee?”
“Yeah, but you’re a big fat liar. You don’t count. I mean, look at your dad. Pathological liar
numeral uno
. Lying is in your genes.”
He leaned forward. “There’s only one thing in my jeans right now.”
“Are you going to take my question seriously or not? This could be the key to our futures.”
“I have a key in my jeans pocket. You could search.”
He was completely blowing off our chance at happiness. “What are you, twelve?”
“Centuries, maybe.”
“You’re twelve centuries old?”
He winced. “You know how older women say they are twenty-nine?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m kind of doing that.”
“No, really, how old are you? Wait!” A thought hit me. Hard. Like a baseball thrown from the pitcher’s plate at Wrigley Field. “How old am I?” I hadn’t really thought of it in those terms. I was supposedly from an ancient race of beings from another universe, another plane of existence. How old was I?
“A machete,” he said, getting up and righting the chair.
“What?”
“If I were a utensil.”
“Does that count as a utensil?”
He winked at me. “It does in my world.”
“Okay, fine. I’d be a … a spork! Wait, what does that mean? I’m not sure a machete and a spork are very compatible.”
He took hold of my chin and lifted my face to his. “I have a feeling a machete and a spork can work very well together.”
Before I could argue, he bent and pressed his mouth to mine. The heat scorched at first, then penetrated my skin and spread through me like warm honey. The kiss, barely a peck, ended too soon as he rose, surprised Cookie with a quick kiss on her cheek, and went back to the kitchen, giving me a spectacular view of his ass.
Cookie gasped and touched the spot where Reyes’s lips had brushed, stars bursting from her eyes. “I want that,” she said, suddenly determined.
I looked back toward the door Reyes had disappeared through. “Well, you can’t have it. It’s mine.”
“No, not that. Not him.” She shook out of her stupor and said, “I mean, yeah, I’d take him in a heartbeat, but I want that. I want what you two have, damn it.” She set her jaw. “Let’s do this. Let’s set up that stubborn, rascally uncle of yours until he begs me to be his girl.”
“Yeah, Cookie,” I said, raising my hand for a high five, but she floundered. “Don’t leave me hangin’.”
“But what if he doesn’t ask me out?”
After waving toward a couple I didn’t know who’d just stepped in the front door to save my dignity, I lowered my hand and said, “I think the more important question is, do you think a machete and a spork are very compatible?”
“Charley, you have to quit taking those ridiculous quizzes.”
“No way. I have to know.”
“Fine, but why a spork?”
“Because I’m versatile. I can multitask like nobody’s business. And I like the way it sounds. It’s so … sporky.”
3
Coffee doesn’t ask silly questions.
Coffee understands.
—BUMPER STICKER
We weren’t back in the office ten minutes before the door to the front entrance opened. I’d expected Mr. Joyce, the agitated man with the issues. Instead I got Denise. My evil stepmother. Thankfully, Mr. Joyce was right behind her. He afforded me the perfect excuse not to talk to her.
Her pallor had a grayish tint to it, and her eyes were lined with the bright red only the shedding of tears could evoke. I honestly didn’t know she had the ability to cry.
“Can I talk to you?” she asked.
“I have a client.” I pointed to the man behind her to emphasize that fact.
Giving her chin a determined upward thrust, she said, “You’ve had clients for two weeks now. I just need a minute.” When I started to argue again, she pleaded with me. “Please, Charlotte.”
Mr. Joyce was holding a baseball cap, wringing it in his hands. He seemed to be growing more agitated by the second. “I really need to talk to you, Ms. Davidson.”
“See?” I pinned Denise with a chastising scowl. “Client.”
She turned on the man, her face as cold and hard as marble. It was an expression I knew all too well. “We just need a minute,” she said to him, her tone razor sharp. “Then she’s all yours.”
He backed off, raising a hand in surrender as he stepped to a chair and took a seat.
My temper flared to life, and I had to force myself to stay calm. I was twenty-seven. I no longer had to put up with my stepmother’s insults. Her revulsion. Her petty snubs. And I damned sure didn’t have to put up with her invading my business and bullying my clients. “That was not necessary,” I said to her when she turned back to me.
“I apologize,” she said, doing a one-eighty. She turned back to Mr. Joyce. “I’m sorry. I’m in a very desperate situation.”
“Tell me about it,” he said, dismissing her with a wave. He clearly had problems of his own.
With all the enthusiasm of a prisoner walking up to the hangman’s noose, I led Denise into my office and closed the door. My temper flaring must have summoned Reyes. He was in my office, waiting, incorporeally.
Then I remembered. He didn’t like Denise any more than I did. Blamed her for most of my heartache as a child. Of course, she’d caused most of it, but Reyes could be … testy when it came to my happiness or lack thereof.
“Want me to sever her spine?” he asked as I sat behind my desk.
“Can I think about it and get back to you?” I asked, teasing. Kind of.
Denise looked toward the wall he was leaning against, the one I was looking at, and naturally saw nothing. But where her usual response would be to purse her lips in disapproval, she wiped at her lapel and sat down instead.
“What do you want?” I asked her, my tone as cold as her heart.
“I’m sure you know that your father has left me.”
“At last.”
She flinched like I’d slapped her. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“Are you really asking me that?”
“I love your father.” She almost came up out of her chair. “I’ve always loved your father.”
She had me there. She’d always been an attentive wife to him. Of course,
attentive
included her agenda, which was manipulative, conniving, and venomous. I couldn’t believe that I could dislike someone so much, but Denise had always been that splinter in my relationship with my father. She did everything in her power to keep us apart. Her jealousy was bizarre and childish. Who on earth was afraid of a father’s love for his child? It just made no sense to me. It never had.
And yet she was never that way toward my sister, Gemma. In fact, she and Gemma were fairly close. I had a feeling Dad’s leaving Denise affected Gemma much more than she was willing to admit. She knew how I felt about our stepmonster, and the fact that she couldn’t go to me when she needed support made me a very bad sibling. But the truth was, she couldn’t. I had no warm and fuzzies where Denise was concerned. She’d made sure of that from day one.
“I—I need you to talk to him. He’s been sick and, and he’s not thinking straight.”
“And what do you want me to say?”
She leveled an exasperated glare on me. “I want you to convince him to come back home where he belongs. He’s still weak. He still needs medical attention.”
“I’m sorry,” I said with a soft, humorless chuckle, “you want me to convince my father to stay with you? The bane of my existence? The woman who made my childhood a living hell? After everything you’ve put me through, you want my help? Are you insane?”
Too bad Gemma, a licensed psychiatrist, was at a conference in D.C. I’d call her and schedule an appointment for Denise ay-sap.
“What have I ever put you through?”
My temper flared again, and I bit my tongue, literally, to keep my emotions under control. When I lost control, the earth shifted beneath me. An earthquake in the middle of Albuquerque would do no one any good.
Reyes straightened as though worried I’d lose control as well. I closed my eyes and took several gulps of air. This wasn’t me. I didn’t hate people. I didn’t make them pay for their misdeeds. Too many departed had crossed through me. Too many times I’d seen what people went through, what they’d endured that made them become the people they were when they died. Until I’d walked a mile in her shoes, I could not judge Denise so completely. That would make me no better than she was. I opened my eyes to her stone face, the face that brought nothing but hurt feelings and knotted stomachaches. Maybe two miles.
“I just have one question,” I said, trying to hold the resentment from my tone lest I sound like her. “Why?”
“Why?”
“Yes, why? Why did you hate me from day one? Why did you treat me like a thorn in your side? What on God’s green earth did I ever do to you?”
She sighed in frustration and let her true colors show through. Her impatience with me, with anything I had to say. “I did no such thing, Charlotte. I don’t hate you. I never have.”
I leaned forward and gave her my best Sunday smile. “I’ll tell you what. When you can admit that you hate me with every fiber of your being, I’ll help you win back Dad. How does that sound?”
“I will never say such a horrible thing.”
I’d offended her. Sweet. “So you can feel it, you just can’t admit to it?”
She squeezed the pocketbook in her lap, her fingers flexing involuntarily. “Charlotte, can we talk sensibly?”
“Wait a minute,” I said as understanding dawned. “You’re here because Dad is fed up with the way you treat me, and you’re thinking that if we become besties, he’ll come back to you.”
“I’m here because I want us all to get into counseling together. Not just Leland and me, but all four of us, including your sister.” Reyes crossed his arms over his chest and went back to holding the wall up while I stood simmering in my astonishment.
She was a piece of work. “How about you go into counseling for you? Get over yourself. And when that happens, when you can be honest with me, we’ll talk again.” I was being so mean. I wanted to applaud myself. I wasn’t a mean person by nature, so it took a lot of energy to bring out the beast in me and stick with it for more than thirty seconds. Damned ADD. But I was so proud of myself. No more being a carpet for someone else to walk on. I was my own girl, and no one was walking on this carpet but me.
“Charley,” Cookie said through the intercom.
I poked the button. “Yes, Cookie?”
“Um, are you almost done? I need coffee.”
“Oh, sorry! I’ll get it made and bring you a cup.”
“Thanks. And can you bring me the box of Nilla Wafers while you’re at it?”
“Can do.” I jumped up and headed for the Bunn. “Priorities,” I said to Denise. “That’s what life is all about.” I filled the tank with water and scooped coffee into the basket. “And coffee. From now on, I am my own priority.” I picked up the box, fished out a Nilla wafer, and stuffed it into my mouth so I could talk with it full. “No more Chawley cawpet.” Or, well, mumble with my mouth full. Denise hated that shit. “Chawley—” I swallowed. “—Charley carpet has been ripped up, and the only thing left for people to walk on is cracked, splintered wood.” God, I was good at metaphors.
“I tried,” she said, rising and perching her purse strap on her shoulder.
“Yes. Yes, you did. And a noble effort it was.” I gestured toward the door, hoping she’d take the hint. “I’m not sure what all this is about, anyway. It’s not like we could really go into counseling. He’s leaving soon for the open sea.”
She turned back to me, her face full of surprise. She blinked and I felt an understanding wash over her; then she plastered on a fake smile, one full of pity with a heaving sprinkling of contempt. One I had seen far too many times in my twenty-seven years. “And here I thought you could detect lies.”
She strode to the door and opened it before I could stop her. “Wait. What lies?”
“I’ll tell you what,” she said, turning the tables, reveling in the power she’d just acquired. “When you can grow up and take a little of the responsibility for our failed relationship, I’ll tell you what your father’s really up to.”
Without another word, she walked out, leaving me speechless.
* * *
What my father was really up to? What did she mean by that? Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to investigate now, but Uncle Bob and I were going to have a long talk the minute I was finished with Mr. Joyce. In fact, that would be my excuse to get him to go over to my apartment that evening. Nothing like killing two birds with one stone. But that sounded so bad. What did those poor birds do to anyone? I decided to change that particular cliché to “Nothing like killing two bad guys with one bullet.” Better. Maybe it would catch on, become accepted worldwide. A girl could dream.
Mr. Joyce was already standing, waiting his turn with the impatience of a kindergartner waiting for his afternoon snack.
“Come on in,” I said to him, gesturing to the chair across from my desk as I headed to the Bunn to complete my promise to Cookie. She’d need CPR if I didn’t get her a cup soon. “So, what can I help you with?”
I poured Cookie’s cup, knowing full well she was interrupting my “meeting” with Denise only to save me from her. I adored that woman. Cookie! Not Denise. After taking the coffee to her and handing her the box of wafers with a wink, I started to close the door between our offices as she took a sip of the piping fresh brew. She rolled her eyes until I saw only white. It was kind of creepy. We were kindred spirits to the core.
“It’s a little embarrassing,” Mr. Joyce said after I offered him a cup, poured my own, then sat behind my desk. Reyes had disappeared as he was wont to do once any immediate danger was dispelled.
“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” I felt the agitation he was sporting externally, but I also felt anxiety and extreme fear. Like gut-wrenching fear.
“Um, okay.” He twisted the baseball cap in his hands before pinning me with his gaze, taking a deep breath, and blurting out, “I sold my soul to the devil and I need you to get it back for me.”
That was new.
I blinked a few times, took a slow sip, then asked, “Did it fetch a good price?”
“What?” he asked, surprised by my reaction.
“Your soul. What’d you get for it?”
He bit down and charged forward. “Ms. Davidson, I’m not kidding.”
“I can see that.”
“I’ve talked to a few—” He glanced around, worried we’d be overheard. “—
individuals
in your field, and they all recommended I hire you. Said if anyone could get it back, you could.”
“Really? And what kind of individuals are in my field?”
“You know,” he said, setting his ball cap on my desk and easing forward to whisper. “The supernatural kind.”
“Ah. Right. Because they’re on every street corner. So, this demon you sold your soul to—”
“Devil,” he corrected, punching the air with an index finger. “He was the devil.”
“Okay, first of all, the
devil
is never on this plane this time of year, so if the guy who bought your soul says he’s the boss man himself, he’s lying.”
“Seriously?” he asked, surprised. “Well, maybe he didn’t say he was the devil, but he had powers, you know? He had an intensity I felt every time he looked at me, like the weight of it alone could crush me. And he has my soul. It’s gone. I can’t feel it anymore.” He patted his clothes as though searching for his wallet.
Wonderful. Mr. Joyce was crazy. I took out a pen and pad. “Okay, can you describe your soul in detail? I’ll put out a BOLO.”
He leaned back, annoyed with me. It happened. “I thought that you of all people would understand.”
I put down my pen. “Why me of all people?”
“I know what you are,” he said. “He told me.”
“The devil told you?”
“No, the guy.” He raked a hand through his hair. “The guy who took my soul. Maybe he just took it for the devil. I don’t know.”
As entertaining as this was, I needed to call Uncle Bob and ask him what was going on with my dad. No way did I call Dad. If he didn’t want me to know something, I damned sure didn’t know.
“Okay, well, thanks for coming in, Mr. Joyce, but—”
“Hedeshi!” he shouted, remembering a name. A name that I knew well.
“Hedeshi is dead,” I said, wondering how he knew the name of the demon sent to kill me. Thankfully, I had the son of Satan and a guardian departed Rottweiler named Artemis backing me up, or I wouldn’t have been there at all.
“Right, he told me about Hedeshi. Said he was dead. During the card game, he’d—”
“Card game?”
“The poker game,” he said, growing more agitated by the second. “The one where I lost my soul.”
I clasped my fingers together. “Let me get this straight. You gambled your soul away?”
“Well … no. Not exactly. I needed money. He knew it. Used it against me.” Shame washed over him in one bright-hot wave. “It was for a good cause. I needed money and he had the highest game in town, so I took a chance. I hocked everything we had just to get a seat at the table, and then I lost every penny.” He scrubbed his forehead, embarrassed. “When he saw how distressed I was, he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, so I said yes. I sold him my soul.”
“Of course you did. Hedeshi,” I reminded him.
He squinted his eyes, trying to remember. “The guy, the dealer, said there was a grim reaper in town wreaking all kinds of havoc on his brethren. Said you managed to kill one of the top generals from hell, a man named Hedeshi.”
How on earth did some dealer from an illicit card game know that? “And how do you know I’m this grim reaper?”
“Because everyone told me,” he said, his voice getting louder. “Look, can you just go talk to this guy? Just get it back? I’ll pay you.”
“I thought you didn’t have any money. That was why you were at the card game in the first place.”
“Yeah, well, I got some. I got a lot. Selling one’s soul is very profitable.” He bowed his head, and the heartache that spread through him stung the backs of my eyes. “Turns out even money can’t cure cancer.”
Son of a bitch. The big C. My most hated enemy.
“Look, I just need my soul. He can have everything back. I just need my soul to be with her. I promised.”
So, a woman he loved had died, and now he wanted his soul back so he could be with her. That was also new.
“You’re the only one who’s ever stood up to one of these guys. No one else will even try.”
“There’s a good reason for that. They’re rather deadly.”
“I’ll do anything. You can have it all. The money. The cars. Everything. My husband and I are devastated.”
And once again, I was taken aback. Just when I thought I knew what was going on. “Your husband?”
“Yes. Paul. We got married in Massachusetts the minute they legalized it.”
“Then who is this ‘she’ you promised to spend eternity with?”
The huge tears shimmering in his eyes as he looked up at me stole my breath and my heart in the same moment. “Our daughter. She was only three when she passed away from neuroblastoma. I got her the best medical care money could buy, but it made no difference.” He took out his wallet and retrieved a picture out of it. Two actually. Handing them to me, he asked, “Do you know what it’s like watching a three-year-old girl die of cancer? She was so brave. She only wanted one thing—our promise that we’d be with her in heaven someday.” His voice broke as I studied the pictures. A gorgeous girl with blond ringlets and huge blue eyes graced the first one. The second one had been taken after a few rounds of chemo, her bald head, no less beautiful, shining in the sun as she flew down a slide, her smile as wide as the New Mexico sky. “We both promised her we’d see her again. Paul doesn’t know what I did for all of this. He doesn’t know I can’t keep our promise.”
I wasn’t sure if it was his sorrow or mine that formed a lump the size of a softball in my throat. Either way, I couldn’t stop the emergence of tears as I gazed at the angel in her fathers’ arms. “When did she pass?” I managed to ask, my chest tightening.
“Yesterday.” And with that, he collapsed into a mass of tears, sobbing into his hands uncontrollably. I rounded the desk, wrapped my arms around his shoulders, and sobbed with him. This was the part I didn’t handle well. The people-left-behind part. Their sorrow was like a boulder on my chest.
I felt Reyes, felt his heat before the door opened and he stepped inside. He didn’t interrupt. He stood back and watched over me as I let the pain of death crush me into dust.
4
My boyfriend called me a stalker.
Well, he’s not actually my boyfriend …
—STATUS UPDATE
I led Mr. Joyce to the door and promised I’d do whatever I could. I still had no idea if he was crazy or not, but I planned to find out.
“What have we got?” Cookie asked, her voice soft.
“We have a client who sold his soul to the devil.”
“Another one?”
She knew just what to say. A little embarrassed, I graced her with the best smile I could conjure under the circumstances. “Exactly. When will these guys ever learn?” I looked over at Reyes, who’d stood watch the whole time. I was more than a little embarrassed that he’d witnessed my breakdown. “Is that even possible?”
