forgotten even that? Her fingers ached at the joints and her stomach growled. Tears flooded her eyes so she couldn’t see. “Billy, help me!”
“Melody?” Billy’s voice was distant and weak. “I’m sorry, Melody. It was your wish.”
Melody slid onto the floor, clutching her chest. A terrible noise thumped from there. A hammering. “Billy!” She grabbed for the blankets, but her fingers wouldn’t close over the material. Then the room shrank to a pinpoint.
And flickered out.
* * * *
“Oh man,” Jerry grumbled to Barnes in the hallway outside the interview room at Arden’s police station. He traced a crack in the linoloeum with the toe of his shoe. The seven-story building hadn’t been updated since it was constructed in the sixties. The disappearing tax base required every man to do double duty but, damn, he’d much rather pretend he was a CSI on a robbery than a social worker with the traumatized victims. “Why do I always have to deal with the hysterical woman? Where’s Rogers?”
“Out sick.”
“Social services?”
“The on-call woman is tied up with a child abuse case.”
“Hospital?”
“Cleared her. They said physically she’s like a newborn. Not a scratch, not a scar, nothing. In perfect shape. Besides, you have a gift with the ladies.” Barnes clapped him on the shoulder and gestured to the interview room.
Gift with the ladies. All he did was never hit on them. Jerry pushed open the interview room door. The woman...uh, girl, sat on the chair on the other side of the gunmetal gray table with her knees pulled up to her chin. Her glossy black hair hung around her face and her dark eyes were huge. Under normal circumstances she probably had dark skin, but shock had sucked all the blood out of her skin and made her sort of yellow. She was wearing a man’s shirt, white with blue pinstripes and–jeez–nothing else. Jerry trained his eyes on the file Barnes had shoved into his hands.
The girl had been found in the apartment of William Welsh. Welsh had been dead for about four days. Eighty-eight years old, William had died of natural causes. The girl had been hiding in a closet wearing– Jerry studied the photo. Wearing nothing but the shirt. Which begged the question: Why did an old coot like Welsh have a half-naked, possibly foreign, probably underage girl stuffed in a closet in his apartment?
“Hi, I’m Jerry Howland.” He held out his hand. “Can you tell me your name?”
The girl stared up at him with her huge eyes. Her face was streaked with tear tracks. “Billy’s dead,” she whispered.
Not foreign. Her voice had a faint accent, but not strong enough to pinpoint its origin. He lowered his hand and sat down in the chair across from her. “I’m sorry. Billy was your grandfather?”
“He was my master.”
Jerry set the file on the table. Master. That sounded bad. What would an eighty-eight-year-old man want with a nubile little...serving girl? He scanned the coroner’s initial report. According to it, the old man had had a really weak heart. No way was he having sex with this girl. “Do you have a name?”
The girl shivered, hugging her knees tighter. “Billy called me Melody.”
Jerry made a note on the file then made the mistake of meeting her eyes. This was why men screwed up when dealing with victims. They got sucked in by the eyes and bang , they turned into big puddles of Anything I can to do make you feel better . “Do you have a last name, Miss Melody?”
“Last name?” She blinked. “My father’s name was Sallah.”
“Okay.” Jerry made another note, fighting the urge to gather her in his arms and swear to protect her against all comers. “Can you tell me how old you are?”
“I don’t know.”
How long had Welsh been keeping this girl in his closet?
“About three thousand years.”
Too long. “Okay. You need some coffee? Something to eat?” He stood. “I’ll get you some coffee and a doughnut.”
“Thank you,” she
“Melody?” Billy’s voice was distant and weak. “I’m sorry, Melody. It was your wish.”
Melody slid onto the floor, clutching her chest. A terrible noise thumped from there. A hammering. “Billy!” She grabbed for the blankets, but her fingers wouldn’t close over the material. Then the room shrank to a pinpoint.
And flickered out.
* * * *
“Oh man,” Jerry grumbled to Barnes in the hallway outside the interview room at Arden’s police station. He traced a crack in the linoloeum with the toe of his shoe. The seven-story building hadn’t been updated since it was constructed in the sixties. The disappearing tax base required every man to do double duty but, damn, he’d much rather pretend he was a CSI on a robbery than a social worker with the traumatized victims. “Why do I always have to deal with the hysterical woman? Where’s Rogers?”
“Out sick.”
“Social services?”
“The on-call woman is tied up with a child abuse case.”
“Hospital?”
“Cleared her. They said physically she’s like a newborn. Not a scratch, not a scar, nothing. In perfect shape. Besides, you have a gift with the ladies.” Barnes clapped him on the shoulder and gestured to the interview room.
Gift with the ladies. All he did was never hit on them. Jerry pushed open the interview room door. The woman...uh, girl, sat on the chair on the other side of the gunmetal gray table with her knees pulled up to her chin. Her glossy black hair hung around her face and her dark eyes were huge. Under normal circumstances she probably had dark skin, but shock had sucked all the blood out of her skin and made her sort of yellow. She was wearing a man’s shirt, white with blue pinstripes and–jeez–nothing else. Jerry trained his eyes on the file Barnes had shoved into his hands.
The girl had been found in the apartment of William Welsh. Welsh had been dead for about four days. Eighty-eight years old, William had died of natural causes. The girl had been hiding in a closet wearing– Jerry studied the photo. Wearing nothing but the shirt. Which begged the question: Why did an old coot like Welsh have a half-naked, possibly foreign, probably underage girl stuffed in a closet in his apartment?
“Hi, I’m Jerry Howland.” He held out his hand. “Can you tell me your name?”
The girl stared up at him with her huge eyes. Her face was streaked with tear tracks. “Billy’s dead,” she whispered.
Not foreign. Her voice had a faint accent, but not strong enough to pinpoint its origin. He lowered his hand and sat down in the chair across from her. “I’m sorry. Billy was your grandfather?”
“He was my master.”
Jerry set the file on the table. Master. That sounded bad. What would an eighty-eight-year-old man want with a nubile little...serving girl? He scanned the coroner’s initial report. According to it, the old man had had a really weak heart. No way was he having sex with this girl. “Do you have a name?”
The girl shivered, hugging her knees tighter. “Billy called me Melody.”
Jerry made a note on the file then made the mistake of meeting her eyes. This was why men screwed up when dealing with victims. They got sucked in by the eyes and bang , they turned into big puddles of Anything I can to do make you feel better . “Do you have a last name, Miss Melody?”
“Last name?” She blinked. “My father’s name was Sallah.”
“Okay.” Jerry made another note, fighting the urge to gather her in his arms and swear to protect her against all comers. “Can you tell me how old you are?”
“I don’t know.”
How long had Welsh been keeping this girl in his closet?
“About three thousand years.”
Too long. “Okay. You need some coffee? Something to eat?” He stood. “I’ll get you some coffee and a doughnut.”
“Thank you,” she
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