Page 37 of Almost Dead (The Cahills 2)

She needed to pull over and accost the man, right here, in broad daylight, with witnesses.

And what?

Accuse him of hitting her with his briefcase on purpose?

Of walking in a crosswalk and grinning evilly?

She, the daughter of Marla Cahill?

Impotently, she watched him disappear behind the idling bus, then heard the honk of an angry horn. The light had turned green, and the guy in the Range Rover behind her was in a hurry. “Get a life,” she muttered, stepping on the gas, but as she drove through the intersection, she kept one eye on her rearview mirror, where fog was clouding her view and the bus bullied its way into traffic.

The man in the black coat with the frighteningly cold grin was gone. Like a scary-looking marionette yanked quickly off the stage by unseen hands, he’d vanished.

Chapter 8

Marla was sitting on the bed, propped up by pillows, a book on the night table, the television turned on, but muted, a rerun of some reality cop show casting shadows in the poorly lit room.

And she wasn’t pleased.

Big, big surprise.

Nor had she gotten off her sorry ass and cleaned the upstairs, claiming that she might be “seen” by some nosy neighbor peeking through the blinds or windows.

What a crock!

Elyse had known dealing with Marla would be difficult, of course she’d known it! The woman was notorious for being self-serving and wanting to be treated like the princess she’d thought she’d been born to be. But she’d never been lazy before. And all during the planning of the escape, she’d done her part. Eagerly. Anxiously. Cleverly.

Now all her sly aggression had flown out the shuttered windows, replaced by idle ennui and sharp remarks. “I thought you’d be back earlier,” she accused. “I’m bored sick. And don’t start in with that garbage about me going upstairs and cleaning toilets or sweeping floors. I’ve had enough of that.”

Elyse bit her tongue. She didn’t know how much more of the woman’s complaining she could take. “After work I stopped by a couple of stores and bought you some things to wear, as a disguise.”

“You really think I’d risk that?”

“Not right now, but soon, yeah.” Elyse had carried two shopping bags down the rickety steps and behind the false wall to Marla’s room. “Take a look.” She felt a little zing of triumph as she pulled out the clothes, body padding and wig that would transform “Marla the Beautiful” into “Marla the Frump”: old-lady shoes, support hose, and an ugly brown housedress that was voluminous enough to hide the fat suit she would wear beneath. The wig she’d found was short and neat, somewhere between platinum blond and gray.

Marla gazed at the items, repulsed. “You’re kidding, right?”

Ignoring Marla’s sarcasm, Elyse placed each item of clothing next to the other. “No, I’m not kidding. They’re perfect! I found them all at the thrift store.”

“I bet. You know, maybe I’ll just stay in.”

“You can’t hide forever.”

“I’m not hiding!” she snapped. “I’m just being careful. Can’t you get that? I’m not going to wear any of those!” She sneered at the floral print in brown and gray. “God, it looks like you tried to find the ugliest clothes in the universe and succeeded!”

“I just tried to find you things that would make you blend in.”

“Oh, right, like this is the pinnacle of haute couture in San Francisco this year! Everyone’s wearing ugly prints and shoes that look like they came out of the sixties.” She threw a look of scorn at the plain, flat loafers. “You’re out of your mind.”

“You’re not going to be walking through the business district or having lunch at the Four Seasons,” Elyse replied with forced patience. “You’ll just be in the car, and we don’t want anyone on the street who has seen your picture on TV to recognize you. I thought you’d want to get out.”

Marla turned quiet.

Again.

She had the whole passive-aggressive act down to a science, and Elyse knew what this was all about. She’d altered the plan enough that Marla was still pouting. Punishing her. Giving her the silent treatment.

Elyse reached into her bag again, this time coming up with a sandwich from the deli just down the street from where she really lived. “You might like this: turkey, lite mayo, even some cranberries. Kinda like Thanksgiving.” She took the wrapped sandwich out of the bag and left it on the night table along with a can of diet soda, a pickle and a small bag of chips.

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