Page 5 of Wham Line
“Mal.”Indira’s voice made me jump.She stood under the eave, hidden in the thicker shadows there.In one hand, she held something silver that caught the light in long, gray smears.Like the rain, I thought as my brain struggled to process what I was seeing.Like a smudgy bit of light and rain that she’d somehow caught hold of.But it wasn’t, of course.It was her gun.“Thomas Malick.”And then, in the tone of someone answering a question, she said, “My ex-husband.”
Chapter 2
Bobby made her give him the gun.
Indira didn’t object.She didn’t argue or fight or complain.She was sopping wet, her hair flattened against her scalp, her clothes pasted to her body, and the whole effect made her look smaller.
I called 911, and then Bobby told me to take her inside.
The stark brightness of the kitchen after the rainy darkness in the alley was unreal.Flushed, frightened faces stared at us.
“I need a towel,” I said.
Several seconds passed before the woman in chef’s whites shouted, “Someone give him a towel.”
The world sprang into motion again.I helped Indira dry off as best we could.Part of my brain—the part that couldn’t help being a mystery writer—wondered if I was destroying evidence.And the rest of me thought I was a traitor for even considering the possibility, but…there it was.
I was distantly aware of murmurs spreading through the kitchen, and then a sharp cry.When I glanced over, the woman in chef’s whites was sagging against a stainless-steel counter, her face bloodless, while members of the kitchen staff plucked at her arms and led her out of the room.
Indira didn’t say anything.She let me help her, and then, when she’d had enough, she caught my hand and stopped me.One of the sous-chefs (or God, whatever they’re called) carried over two folding chairs, and we sat and waited for the sheriff to arrive.Around us, the kitchen moved with broken rhythm—spurts of movement, sudden halts, wary gazes turned our way.Bobby didn’t come back inside; he wouldn’t leave the scene until someone else could secure it.
Sheriff Acosta didn’t take long to get there.She entered through the alley door, wearing a transparent poncho beaded with rain.Her hat was dark with water, and the tip of her ponytail looked damp too.She took one look at us and said, “Is either of you hurt?”
I shook my head.Indira didn’t respond.
“Dash, go back to the dining room.”The sheriff scanned the kitchen.“Who’s in charge here?”
The sous-chef who had brought the chairs raised her hand.
“I’m going to need somewhere to work,” the sheriff said.“And—Dash, right now.”
I squeezed Indira’s hand, but she didn’t respond to that either.Then I left.
The dining room was cool in comparison with the kitchen’s heat.Cool and swallowed up by shadows and much, much too quiet.Whispers moved through the crowd like ripples in a pond.Deputy Winegar, pouch-eyed and grim, stood at the door, and to judge by the mixture of interest and unhappiness, the diners knew they weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.
Every eye in the room followed me as I made my way toward my friends.Millie was pale.Fox was twisting their cardigan.Keme’s breathing was shallow, and if anything, his grip on Millie had only tightened while I’d been gone.I realized, in one of those ultra-clear moments that sometimes came in the midst of disaster, that the only thing worse for Keme than not being able to protect someone was having to choose who to protect.
“She’s okay,” I said.“Indira’s okay.”
Keme sagged, and he let Millie pull him into a hug.Fox released their cardigan and rubbed their hands on their knees.
“It’s pretty bad, though—” I said.And then tears stung my eyes.
The worst part was, I didn’t even know why I was crying.I hadn’t been in danger.Indira wasn’t hurt.I hadn’t even seen the body up close, for heaven’s sake.But my throat prickled like I had the flu, and it took me several long seconds to fight back a genuine sob.
“Come on,” Fox said gently as they rose.Patting my back, they turned me toward the fireplace.“Let’s get you warmed up.”
It wasn’t until then that I noticedIwas soaked too.Soaked, and frozen to the bone.Fox got me seated on the hearth, and the heat of the flames made me melt.Millie held my hand, which I hadn’t realized until then was exactly what I needed.And Keme used a series of napkins to dry my hair (he’s nothing if not resourceful).He also got weirdly aggressive with the rubbing at the end, yanking my head back and forth, which I figured was his psycho teenage boy way of working out his own complicated emotions.It actually made me feel better—I know, it makes zero sense.
“I’m going to get you a drink,” Fox said.“Millie, Keme, why don’t you find Nalini and let her know Indira’s okay?”
Keme nodded, and in true boy fashion, he apparently still had no idea how much trouble he was in; I didn’t actuallyseeMillie’s claws come out, but she did have a certain look that made me wonder if Nalini had medical insurance.
After they left, I sat there, absorbing the heat from the fireplace, my muscles slowly relaxing.Yes, people were still staring at me, but it wasn’t as bad now.I was caught up in a contemplation of my current state—dry clothes were quickly becoming a priority, and my Mexico 66s were caked with some sort of grime from the alley—when someone sat down next to me.
It was the woman from the bar, the one with the earth-toned makeup and the hair dyed a shade too dark.She was carrying two glasses, and she held one out to me.
“You need this more than I do,” she said with something on her face that wasn’t quite a smile.
