Page 44 of Secrets Along the Shore
I dropped the dripping pages back on my desk. “I’ll get some paper towels. Don’t worry about it.” I managed to offer Lisa a friendly smile and she returned it with a such a forlorn one that I actually felt at fault for the entire event.
But once I was in the break room, searching for paper towels, I couldn’t stop thinking about the small connection between Archer’s Heating and Cooling, Lilian, and Rosalie. Had the police considered a connection between them that was created by an outside source? Something impersonal and vague like servicing a furnace?
Preoccupied by my thoughts, I snatched a roll of towels and returned to my desk. Elsie was there, a towel in her hand that she’d retrieved from who knew where, and she had my entire desk arranged into mismanaged piles as she wiped the last remaining drop away.
“I got ya covered, hon.” Her reedy voice and announcement was meant to encourage me, but instead, I saw an invasion of privacy.
Yes, I knew my desk wasn’tmydesk, but I also preferred my space to be respected. It’d already been drowned by my water and Lisa’s inopportune peppy greeting, and now it was rearranged by an overzealous coworker who’s old-fashioned hearing aids bulged out of her ears and only emphasized how true it was that Elsie was the matriarch of Archer’s Heating and Cooling—not a critical employee.
More hustle ensued as a crew of workman made their way through the office and to an archaic white board filled with magnets. It was their job calendar—because apparently looking up jobs on the computer in the warehouse took too much talent. They preferred the traditional way. A kindergarten sticker board.
“Hey Noa!” one of the guys called.
“Hold on.” My reply was sharper than I intended.
Elsie waved me off as I hovered. “Go! I’ve just about got it all cleaned up.”
I plopped the unneeded roll of paper towels on my desk, eyed my screen which was still emblazoned with the search for Sophia’s home address, and went to the help the work crew read a calendar.
Some days were just like that. Dead ends. Dead beats. Dead theories.
By the time I clocked out and waved at Alan at the warehouse across the street, I was ready to go home. To my apartment. I didn’t even want to stay with Livia. I just wanted life to go back to what it had been only a week ago. Carefully manicured and tailored toward privacy.
I slipped into the front seat of my car and glanced in my rearview mirror.
Sophia was there.
Her eyes glassy.
Her face unreadable.
“You’re never going to go away, are you?” I whispered.
She didn’t have to answer. Whether I was seeing her spirit or entertaining an over-sensitive imagination, I already knew what the truth was.
Sophia’s murder had opened a door I couldn’t close again. And the worst part was she was following me home.
“Do you think it’s safe?”Livia drilled me.
I shouldn’t have called her. I should have just texted her that I was heading back to my place. Two nights and no incidents? I wasn’t going to live my life in limbo. I couldn’t.
“I’ll be fine,” I promised. After a brief protest and reluctant agreement, Livia gave in and we ended our call.
Famous last words?
Maybe. But I was glad to be at my apartment if for no other reason than it was quiet. A little musty, but you couldn’t pay me to open my windows now. Not after the other night and the conclusion that it was how the intruder must have gotten inside. I checked the A/C and turned it down two degrees to 70F. That should help cycle the air.
I threw my bag onto the couch and was about to pull back the cover on a microwave dinner when my phonepinged.
Recognize this?
I didn’t know the number, but there was no mistaking the attached picture.
The garden variety snake filled the screen. It was a still shot. A picture most likely snagged off the Internet. But I flung my phone across the counter in an uncontrolled reaction.
My heart pounded, and I counted to ten far too rapidly to have any calming effect.
He’d texted me? He’d textedme! The killer—the Serpent Killer? —or Sophia’s killer? The ominous weight of its reality stole my breath. I whirled for the sink and shoved the faucet on, grabbing a glass—dirty or clean, it didn’t matter—and filled it with cold water. I drank it. All of it. Downing the water as though it would ease the trembling in my body.
