Emily Kimelman - Sydney Rye 02 - Death in the Dark by Emily Kimelman Page B

really turned her life around. She’s a serious nut bag. You should be proud.”
    “Jacquelyn Saperstein is suffering under a false impression of who I was. All the people on that site are deluded. I’m not a god damn hero.”
    “Come work for me.”
    “No.”
    “What if I could pardon you?”
    I realized I should hang up the phone. This guy was so deep under my skin I practically felt like a puppet. “Ha,” I said, “you’re going to pardon me for something you did?”
    “I could make the charges go away. You could be Joy Humbolt again.”
    I hung up the phone. Turned it off. Sat back down on my blanket, refilled my wine glass and spent the rest of the afternoon watching Carlos play a hot game of soccer while Blue napped peacefully by my side.
    Carlos was surprised when I said I wanted to spend the night at his place. He didn’t say anything but I saw the jump of his eyebrows and a sweet smile cross his lips. I felt a stab of guilt. He thought I wanted to get closer but I was just using him to avoid my place.
    I woke up around 3 a.m. in Carlos’s darkened bedroom. I lay there and watched shadows cast by the curtains move across the ceiling as car’s headlights passed by. The shadows looked like opaque, transforming African masks.
    When I stood, Blue raised his head and then followed me out into the living room. Wrapping myself in a blanket I found on the couch, I wandered into the kitchen. The fridge was full but I didn’t want anything.
    My phone was in my bag, still turned off. A deep, sharp pain in my chest stopped me from calling Mulberry. If it was true that he had conspired with Bobby Maxim, I didn’t know what to say. And I didn’t want to lose him.
    Mulberry helped me when no one else would. I never could have made it out of New York alive, let alone a millionaire, without him. If he hadn’t come to Mexico and pulled me out of my self-pitying spiral of alcoholism, I’d probably still be there. He gave me the name Sydney Rye. More than a name, he gave me a purpose. I’d always thought his help came from friendship. But now it all had a shadow over it. What did Mulberry really want from me?
    Blue hopped up on the couch and rested his massive head between his paws. He watched me pace around the living room, eventually closing his eyes and snoring softly. Over the last three years, Blue had changed as much as me. When I first adopted Blue he was underweight, a chronic chewer with separation anxiety, and a penchant for trying to attack strangers on the street.
    Now he was thick and strong; besides the slight limp where Kurt Jessup’s bullet ripped through him, Blue was the picture of canine health. His coat would have looked at home on a wolf; it was glossy and shone in the gentle light from the street lamps that filtered through the living room windows. Blue was gigantic, the height of a Great Dane, the long snout of a Collie, and he took up most of the couch.
    The bullet that shattered Blue’s shoulder blade left a scar, thick and pink, hidden under his fur. My scars from that fight included a streak of ruined skin under my left eye that tingles with damaged nerves. Above that same eye the ghost of another wound lingers. Not as deep, it is a gentle reminder that runs above my eyebrow fading into my hairline, of what madmen will do if you don’t stop them.
    I grew bangs to cover the damage I could and cut the rest of my long blonde hair into a neat bob, the ends just grazing my shoulders. Being a fugitive you’d think I would need more of a disguise but there are no pictures of me with the scars and besides, I know how to disappear. Most people don’t want to see a killer so they don’t see me.
    Carlos’s computer sat in the corner of the living room on a white desk whispering to me. I pulled up the chair and woke it up.
    I stared at the blank Google page for a moment and then typed in “Joy Humbolt.” Jackie’s site was the first to pop up. Amazing to think that my history was being told by