Page 19 of Creeping Lily
“That yours?”
The hunger in his stare tells me I’ve already got him halfway hooked.
“Yeah,” I say. “Had her since college.”
“You selling?”
“Nah, she’s not for sale.”
“Everything’s for sale,” he shoots back, leaning in a little, “for a price.”
I don’t answer right away. Just turn back to my glass, tracinga finger along the rim. My silence makes him bristle — I can feel it in the way the air changes, the weight of his glare against my profile. I let him sit with it. Let him think he’s working on me when I’m the one setting the trap.
“You got a place to stay?” he asks.
“You know a place?”
“I got a spare room. You could crash for the night.”
“Appreciate it, man,” I tell him, letting a hint of gratitude creep into my voice. “Happy to make it worth your while.” And oh, will I.
“Don’t mention it,” he says, eyes skating over me from head to toe. My clothes, my watch, my whole look screams money — exactly the impression I want.
“Walt Barnaby,” he offers with a crooked half-smile.
“You sure your missus won’t mind me crashing the party?” I ask.
His grin sharpens into something lewd. “She won’t mind a bit.” He thinks he’s reeling me in. He has no idea I’ve already got the hook in deep.
When I stand and follow him toward the door, I take in the room one last time. Every set of eyes is on me. They know why I’m here. I’ve made no attempt to hide it. In a perfect world, they’d thank me for what’s about to happen. Tomorrow, they won’t even remember my face.
We step out into the street. Walt climbs into his truck, and I fire up the Pontiac, trailing him out of the small strip of shops and onto a winding rural road. The town falls away into overgrown lots and boarded-up windows. Ghost town territory.
His place is a single-story brick-and-tile relic, slouched between two abandoned houses. Weeds choke the yards. Windows are nailed shut. He waves me into the backyard to park — says it’s safer there. More likely he doesn’t want curious eyes seeing his new houseguest.
The back door is a flyscreen hanging on by a prayer, the mesh torn wide in a diagonal slash. Walt steps through into the chaos beyond, and I follow.
The stench hits first — stale grease, rotting food, old beer. Dirty dishes and pizza boxes pile high on every surface.
A woman stands at a makeshift counter, a crying child balanced on her hip while she scrubs at a plate with the kind of mechanical detachment that comes from doing it a thousand times. She startles when we walk in, her eyes darting from him to me. There’s fear there, sharp and immediate, though she masks it as best she can.
She’s young — twenty-two at most. Her frame is slight under a worn, threadbare dress that hangs loose to her knees. Hair the color of dirty straw falls limp around her face, streaked with unnatural gray. Even under the neglect, I can see traces of beauty. Maybe she was stunning once, but time with a man like Walt strips that away, piece by piece.
“Deanna,” Walt says, pointing at her like she’s an object, not a person.
He’s even given her a new name.
“Calder,” I offer, lifting a hand in a lazy wave. She nods, cautious, but the fear doesn’t leave her eyes.
“Cal’s taking the spare room tonight,” Walt tells her. His tone has a weight I can’t quite place, but she can — her shoulders tense, breath quickening. “Just for the night, then he’ll be gone.”
She exhales, but I can’t tell if it’s relief or disappointment.
He excuses himself to “take a piss,” disappearing through a door at the back. I take the chair at the small dining table, its position giving me a clear view of both her and the doorway.
The kid on her hip has gone quiet, studying me with wide, unblinking eyes. I don’t speak. I just watch. She moves around the cramped kitchen, avoiding my gaze, the motion of her hands quick and practiced.
This is the woman I came here for.
