Page 69 of Need Him Like Oxygen

“It was self-defense,” he insisted.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Are you calling the cops?”

“No,” she and I both answered at the same time.

The kid’s gaze slid to me.

“Ah, Joel, this is Dav. Dav, this is my neighbor, Joel.”

“He works for you?” I asked.

“He just keeps an eye on my door.”

“Since she got robbed,” Joel said.

“What?” I snapped, gaze sliding to her.

“It wasn’t a robbery,” she said, shrugging. “The place was just tossed.”

“Just tossed? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it wasn’t your problem. I have it handled.”

“Yeah? ‘Cause it looks like relying on a kid to help you fight an entire crew that almost fucking killed you. The fuck is going on with you?”

“I don’t have time for your bullshit, Dav. I have shit to do,” she said, moving over toward the body, snatching up the knife, and tossing it into the sink, water on full blast.

“Did you forget that you’re a part of a family, Cin? That the whole point of that is to have people around to have your back?”

“This is my problem. Not theirs.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Just this once, it has to be.”

There was no reasoning with her about this. Not right now anyway. She was in damage control mode.

This shit had to get cleaned up.

Then maybe I could convince her to let me in on this. Because things were not looking good.

She grabbed a bottle of bleach from under the counter, pouring it over the knife and sink, and just letting the water run as she turned back to the body.

“Do you know him?” I asked.

She stared down at him for a long time before shaking her head. “No.”

Then she was squatting down, patting his pockets, finding a wallet, and pulling it out. “Chet Wheaton,” she read off his license. “That means nothing to me. You?” she asked, looking up at me.

“No. And it doesn’t sound Irish or Russian.”

“Contract, maybe,” she mumbled to herself.

“It’s a name, at least. Something to go on.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, putting the wallet on the counter to deal with later.

---