way.”
Ella stared at the rug, its colors blurring with her tears of sorrow and confusion and panic and fear.
*
“Tacos,” Keefer said.
Her brothers hadn’t budged from the couch. Kellianne stood in the hallway, hands on hips. Beyond mad. Now the two were watching a music video, blasting the speakers, something with stuff blowing up. She’d like to blow them up, the morons. Her fingers were raw from the stupid duct tape, and she’d lugged about fifty plastic bags of carpeting squares—okay, maybe five—to the barrel at the front door. Why Kev insisted she yank up the carpet from the bedroom when the body was in the kitchen seemed ridiculous. But she was too—whatever—to argue. Get it done, right? Then it would be over.
Besides, now that she’d figured things out, now that she’d had her good idea, the more they left her alone the better.
“No way, asshole.” Kevin sprawled on the couch, his white-bootied feet still plonked on the dead woman’s coffee table. “I’m not eating one more frickin’ taco. I could go for a meatball sub, though. The ones from down the street. I’ll buy if you fly.”
“Let’s get the princess to fly,” Keefer said. “She’s always whining for food.”
She?
“I’m right here, assholes. And I’m not hungry.” Kellianne was dying in the Tyvek suit. But now it didn’t matter. She smoothed a sleeve, then the zippered front, making sure it looked flat enough. “You go. I’ve gotta finish in the back.”
“But you gotta bill for lunch,” Kevin said. “Or it makes us look bad.”
“Put down that I got a sub and a soda, big shot,” she said. “Dad’s gonna kill you if you get caught padding the bill, though, ya know.”
“Caught by you and what army?” Keefer said. He jabbed his brother with an elbow. “Pretty funny, huh? And like we’re afraid of Dad.”
“Shut up about Dad,” Kevin said. “We going for the frickin’ subs or what?”
Leave leave leave. They have to leave. Or this will never work. The landlord was an out-of-state, according to the Afterwards paperwork, so that was good. The insurance company knew the drill, they were cool with whatever up to the policy limits. No annoying relatives had called or showed up demanding to take stuff, like sometimes happened. The cops had cleared the scene. So seemed like no one would be snooping in here.
All good for Kellianne. All very, very good.
24
“I’ll tell if you will,” Jane whispered. They’d almost arrived at pizza guy’s floor, and Jane didn’t want to let go of Jake’s hand. But Jake had to be going somewhere. In about two seconds, he’d have to declare a floor. After that she’d know whether he was headed for Maggie Gunnison. Whether he knew about “Brie.”
“Tell what?” Jake’s voice went into her hair.
He smelled like citrus, and cinnamon, and coffee. “Why you’re here,” Jane said. “You first.”
The elevator stopped at ten, the doors sliding open. The pizza guy got out, leaving them alone. Jane didn’t move.
Jake didn’t, either.
The door closed, and they were alone.
“Wonder what’ll happen if no one presses a button?” Jane turned, slowly, looking up into Jake’s eyes and not letting go of his hand. She remembered his touch from that one night last summer. The night of Jake’s apartment and his hands on her skin and their clothes on the floor and—the night she said no. They’d done the math—reporter plus source equals disaster. They thought they’d nipped this in the bud. In reality, it was way past the bud.
She dropped her tote bag to the floor, and stepped so close to him she could feel his chest rise, then fall. The elevator beeped, signaling its impatience. You’re in an elevator, Jane Elizabeth.
“Is this your idea of sharing a room? Hmm?” Jake touched a gloved finger to her face, gave that smile she missed every day. “Want me to push the stop button? Or maybe … stopping isn’t what you had in mind.”
She felt the sleek
Ella stared at the rug, its colors blurring with her tears of sorrow and confusion and panic and fear.
*
“Tacos,” Keefer said.
Her brothers hadn’t budged from the couch. Kellianne stood in the hallway, hands on hips. Beyond mad. Now the two were watching a music video, blasting the speakers, something with stuff blowing up. She’d like to blow them up, the morons. Her fingers were raw from the stupid duct tape, and she’d lugged about fifty plastic bags of carpeting squares—okay, maybe five—to the barrel at the front door. Why Kev insisted she yank up the carpet from the bedroom when the body was in the kitchen seemed ridiculous. But she was too—whatever—to argue. Get it done, right? Then it would be over.
Besides, now that she’d figured things out, now that she’d had her good idea, the more they left her alone the better.
“No way, asshole.” Kevin sprawled on the couch, his white-bootied feet still plonked on the dead woman’s coffee table. “I’m not eating one more frickin’ taco. I could go for a meatball sub, though. The ones from down the street. I’ll buy if you fly.”
“Let’s get the princess to fly,” Keefer said. “She’s always whining for food.”
She?
“I’m right here, assholes. And I’m not hungry.” Kellianne was dying in the Tyvek suit. But now it didn’t matter. She smoothed a sleeve, then the zippered front, making sure it looked flat enough. “You go. I’ve gotta finish in the back.”
“But you gotta bill for lunch,” Kevin said. “Or it makes us look bad.”
“Put down that I got a sub and a soda, big shot,” she said. “Dad’s gonna kill you if you get caught padding the bill, though, ya know.”
“Caught by you and what army?” Keefer said. He jabbed his brother with an elbow. “Pretty funny, huh? And like we’re afraid of Dad.”
“Shut up about Dad,” Kevin said. “We going for the frickin’ subs or what?”
Leave leave leave. They have to leave. Or this will never work. The landlord was an out-of-state, according to the Afterwards paperwork, so that was good. The insurance company knew the drill, they were cool with whatever up to the policy limits. No annoying relatives had called or showed up demanding to take stuff, like sometimes happened. The cops had cleared the scene. So seemed like no one would be snooping in here.
All good for Kellianne. All very, very good.
24
“I’ll tell if you will,” Jane whispered. They’d almost arrived at pizza guy’s floor, and Jane didn’t want to let go of Jake’s hand. But Jake had to be going somewhere. In about two seconds, he’d have to declare a floor. After that she’d know whether he was headed for Maggie Gunnison. Whether he knew about “Brie.”
“Tell what?” Jake’s voice went into her hair.
He smelled like citrus, and cinnamon, and coffee. “Why you’re here,” Jane said. “You first.”
The elevator stopped at ten, the doors sliding open. The pizza guy got out, leaving them alone. Jane didn’t move.
Jake didn’t, either.
The door closed, and they were alone.
“Wonder what’ll happen if no one presses a button?” Jane turned, slowly, looking up into Jake’s eyes and not letting go of his hand. She remembered his touch from that one night last summer. The night of Jake’s apartment and his hands on her skin and their clothes on the floor and—the night she said no. They’d done the math—reporter plus source equals disaster. They thought they’d nipped this in the bud. In reality, it was way past the bud.
She dropped her tote bag to the floor, and stepped so close to him she could feel his chest rise, then fall. The elevator beeped, signaling its impatience. You’re in an elevator, Jane Elizabeth.
“Is this your idea of sharing a room? Hmm?” Jake touched a gloved finger to her face, gave that smile she missed every day. “Want me to push the stop button? Or maybe … stopping isn’t what you had in mind.”
She felt the sleek
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