Page 8 of More Than Nothing
The argument had already started before Roman pushed through the front door.
“I’m only here for milk. We’ve run out at the diner.” He recognized Elenie’s voice a second before he saw her.
“Give me my fucking card or I’ll snap your dirty, thieving hands right off your body,” growled a slim, wiry man with a bushy red beard and a denim shirt. He was crowding her up against thedoor of an upright fridge, veins raised at his temples. Elenie dangled a large carton of milk from each hand. She looked tired.
“Move back, please, sir. I’ll be the one to decide if there’s any snapping.” Roman stepped close enough to Red Beard to force the other man to take a step away. There wasn’t much room between the shelves at the back of the store as it was, and they formed an uncomfortable triangle in the tight space. “What seems to be the problem?”
“This little bitch swiped my card out of my pocket. I had it a minute ago and now I don’t. And she was right behind me by the fridges.”
Elenie lifted her hands, deliberately sloshing the cartons of milk like funky tambourines. “And how do you think I took it out of your pocket—with my teeth?” Her sarcasm was biting, her face scornful.
“She has a point, sir.” Roman suppressed a smile.
“She’s a fucking Dax. She could probably lift a wallet with her toes if she wanted. You’re new here. You have no idea.”
Roman opened his mouth to make a suggestion, but Elenie beat him to it. Thrusting the milk cartons onto the nearest shelf, she gestured down the length of her body with both hands. “My shirt and skirt don’t have any pockets. There’s nowhere to put anything apart from my hoodie.” Embarrassment warring with frustration on her face, Elenie slipped her arms out of the top and held it out to him. “Please check the pockets.”
Roman slid a hand into each pocket in turn, then handed it back to her. “Nothing,” he confirmed.
Red Beard scoffed. “Could have put it anywhere! What about your shoes?”
Without comment, she kicked off her sneakers and held them upside down.
“Socks?”
“That won’t be necessary.” Roman called a halt to any further disrobing.
“CJ? You still here?” Three heads swiveled at the yell from the teenager behind the store counter.
“I’m here.” It seemed Red Beard had a name.
“You’ve left your card in the machine.”
There was a moment of silence. Roman gestured toward the cash register with the slight raise of one eyebrow. “I suggest you collect it and go, sir.”
Running an irritable hand through his beard, CJ pushed past Elenie and sloped off in the direction of the counter, muttering to himself as he disappeared around one of the shelving units. Elenie bent to push her feet back into her Converse, well-worn and faded, the tongues creased and handkerchief-thin. She retied discolored laces and shoved her arms through the sleeves of her hoodie. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Beneath the unmistakable top notes of diner food, she smelled of something citrusy and appealing. It disrupted Roman’s train of thought and there was a strained silence before he remembered his conversation with Maggie. “By the way, the bracelet belonged to Elfrida Alberty. She was on your list.”
Elenie straightened the cuff of one sleeve. “Well, I’m glad she’s gotten it back. I guess I won’t hold my breath for a thank you. Like most people around here, she has me pegged for a thief.” Her words were flippant, her eyes resigned. He searched for bitterness but didn’t find it.
“I suppose everyone is different, but until I know otherwise, I prefer to make up my own mind.” The urge to show he wasn’t “most people” came from Roman’s gut.
Elenie tipped her chin to search his face. She looked genuinely taken aback. He was close enough to see the flecks, like speckles on a bird’s egg, in the gray of her irises, and wondered what it wouldtake for her to look at him with less suspicion. Then he wondered why he cared.
Roman rattled his keys against the palm of his hand. “Don’t forget your milk,” he reminded her gruffly and strode away in search of teabags. By the time he got to the counter to pay, Elenie was gone.
He returned to the station to find a report on his desk. A truck had been torched on a property just out of town.
So, this could be interesting.
Roman pressed his finger to the bell on one side of the front door and kept it there, Dougie a solid presence at his shoulder. His first ring had gone unanswered, and so had the knock he’d followed it up with, but there was no doubt someone was home. Rap lyrics and a thrumming beat, angry and intense, rained like tickertape from an open upstairs window. Running his gaze over the front yard, he took in the ratty American flag hoisted on a pole alongside the driveway, patchy grass that wasn’t quite a lawn, and a three-legged plastic table lying at a tilt against the house. The timber sidings were rotten low down, paint flaking on the weather-damaged boards. Cigarette ends littered the porch steps, scattered around his feet.
He knew from his inquiries that Frank Dax ran a business providing freelance security—a broad term which, to Roman, sounded like muscle for hire. His sons worked with him. Police records also showed that Frank drove an almost new, high-end Dodge Ram truck, at odds with the unloved property in front of him.
The front door opened. A tall, thin woman leaned against the frame, barefoot and mid-yawn. An oversized, orange t-shirt skirtedher thighs, an incongruously huge pair of sunglasses perched on her nose. It was possible she also wore shorts but, if she did—and he hoped she did—he couldn’t see them.
Athena Dax. Elenie’s mother.
