Cook the Books by Jessica Conant-Park, Susan Conant Page B

Please don’t let it be a dead body, please don’t let it be a dead body! I repeated the plea over and over, as if it were a mantra. I could feel my arms shake, but I pushed myself up off the lump and realized that I’d tripped over a mattress. Digger had apparently used this room as a second bedroom and not just an office. I sighed, stood up, and smacked my back into something hard. A loud crash nearly sent me into cardiac arrest, but I whipped the light in the direction of the noise. I’d knocked over two milk crates filled with cookbooks. Okay, enough was enough! I was getting the messenger bag and getting the hell out of here. I planted my feet firmly on the floor and played the small light slowly and deliberately over every inch of the room.
    There it was. That had to be it. An overstuffed messenger bag sat right by the doorway. Damn. If I’d looked carefully before entering the room, I could have avoided scaring myself to pieces. I got the bag, put the strap over my shoulder, and stepped into the hallway. Since I was right by the front door, I hoped to use it to make a quick escape that would spare me from backtracking down the hallway and through the kitchen. I located the front door, but just as I set my hand on the doorknob, a noise coming from the kitchen made me freeze.
    I don’t believe in ghosts, but I do believe in rats, and if I had to choose between running into one or the other, I’d pick ghosts. I furiously jiggled the doorknob, barely seeing what I was doing because my nerves were making the penlight shake and dance all over the place. Although the knob turned, the door didn’t budge. Dammit! It must be sealed. It made no sense to have sealed the front door and not the back, but now was not the time to phone the city to complain about how its employees handled condemned buildings. The noise from the kitchen grew louder. Then it moved closer to me. I had a sudden, ardent wish that I’d been right about the rats. The sound of footsteps, however, told me that there was another person in the apartment.
    I tried to talk myself out of my panic. There was no reason to imagine that this newcomer was a threat, I told myself. A neighbor who’d seen or heard me must have come to investigate. I struggled to make speedy plans. In this situation, what would an insurance company investigator say? I shifted the weight of Digger’s bag on my shoulder and pivoted as smoothly as I could to face whoever was coming my way. Squinting into the bright beam of a flashlight, I was blinder than I’d been in complete darkness.
    The light moved away from eyes, and I could see a man’s figure approaching, a man who moved down the hallway much less clumsily than I had.
    My trembling became uncontrollable. The man stepped close to me. His flashlight dropped to the floor as he moved in until he was only inches from me. Then he pressed his body against mine, pushing my back to the door, pinning me to it, keeping my knees from giving out on me.
    “Chloe,” he whispered, barely audible.
    I could see nothing at all, but I could feel his hands on my waist, pulling me against him and then moving up my sides, across my back. His mouth found mine, and I could taste him as he started kissing me deeply. I stopped thinking and just let myself get lost in his taste and his feel. I lifted my hands to his face, touching his cheeks and then running my fingers through his hair. I wrapped my arms around his neck and held on tightly, barely able to breathe as he continued to kiss me relentlessly. Finally I pulled away enough to take in some air.
    “Josh,” I said. “Josh.”
     

TEN
     
    JOSH, I repeated in disbelief. I moved my lips to his again, totally delirious and responding instinctively.
    He nuzzled his cheek against mine. Feeling his warm breath on my ear, I shuddered.
    “God, I missed you,” he said, and I felt him move in to kiss me again.
    Suddenly coming to my senses, I shoved him away with both hands. “What the hell are