“Uncle Bob,” I said in a super annoyed, my head is killing me voice, “you’re too early.”
I could see Yost out of the corner of my eye, the expression on his face priceless. He glanced at Ubie, then back at me, his mouth open in shock as an officer spouting the Miranda led his hands behind his back to be cuffed.
“I suppose I could’ve waited until he actually killed you,” Ubie said, helping me up. “With the other evidence, we got plenty, pumpkin.”
I grabbed for the stability of the shelf as Uncle Bob clutched me.
He brushed the hair out of my eyes. “You okay?”
After bringing my other hand forward to gloat about all the gushing blood I’d accumulated, I said, “There’s not a drop.” I turned my hand over in case I missed any. “There’s no blood whatsoever. How am I not bleeding to death right now? ’Cause that freaking hurt.” I said the last through gritted teeth while glaring at Yost.
In a fit of anger—or epilepsy, it was hard to tell—he ripped his yet-to-be-cuffed hand from the officer and lunged at me. I had no idea what he’d hoped to gain. Half a second before he was slammed onto the concrete floor, he’d grabbed a handful of shirt. The experienced officers took him down fast, and I went with him with a squeak of surprise, my shirt ripping all the way. I prayed to God the hidden-camera recording would never leave the evidence room. Ubie helped me up a second time, and I tried to give the girls their privacy, but with only half a shirt, it was difficult.
I collected myself the best that I could, then looked down at Yost. “This is so going on my bill.”
He growled under the officers’ weight as they cuffed him before dragging him to his feet and escorting him out of the hospital. The accumulation of dropped jaws as every head turned to watch in disbelief would have been humorous if my head didn’t hurt so bad.
Uncle Bob stayed behind with me. “So,” he said, watching them walk away, “are you going to call Agent Carson with the good news, or shall I?”
“You can do it,” I said, suddenly despondent. Was Yost just being mean, or did I really look stupid? “Just make sure Luther Dean isn’t anywhere nearby when you call her.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, he’s big.”
“And two?”
“His name is Luther, if that tells you anything.”
“Got it.”
24
If life hands you lemons, keep them.
Because, hey, free lemons.
—T-SHIRT
By the time we finished everything up with Dr. Death, it was late, I was tired, and my head was throbbing. All things considered, Luther took the news that he almost lost both his sisters pretty well. Either that or his sisters had sedated him. I envied him that as I trudged up the stairs to my humble abode with the realization that I needed sleep. Period. Reyes or no Reyes, I had to catch some Z’s. So when I opened my door and found my TV on, a sleeping Amber on the sofa, and a large man sitting on the back of it, holding a gun at her head and watching me with seemingly infinite patience, the fact that I almost blacked out was completely understandable.
I took in the scene as the man raised a meaty hand and put a finger over his mouth to shush me. Then he gestured toward Amber with a nod. The gun was literally touching her temple, and I could only pray the cold metal wouldn’t wake her. I eased my bag and keys onto the counter, then raised my hands to show compliance. He smiled and summoned me over with another nod.
He’d aged since the last time I saw him. But his build, the oily gray of his hair, the thickness of his stubby hands, were all unchanged from the time I threw a brick through his kitchen window to stop him from beating a boy to death. His image had been scorched into my memory.
“I hear you’re looking for me,” he whispered, and my gaze darted to Amber’s sleeping form. “She’s out,” he assured me. “I been here for hours, and she hasn’t moved an inch.”
My breath shook the next words from my mouth. “Did you do anything to her?”
“No.” He offered me a chastising frown. “Little girls aren’t really my thing.”
And I remembered what his thing was. I had proof sitting in the next room, nestled beneath my lingerie. Thinking about what he’d done to Reyes growing up, I could honestly say I’d never hated anyone more in my life.
“Let me take her home,” I whispered, “then I’m all yours.”
“Do I look stupid?” he asked.
“Hardly,” I said quickly, placating him. “That’s why I made the suggestion. You’re supposed to be dead. You certainly wouldn’t want anyone to see you here. If they find your fingerprints, this game that you’ve been playing for over a decade will end. Where’s the fun in that?”
His scrutinized me from head to toe, sizing me up, before saying, “Fingerprints aren’t usually a problem when I burn the place down.”
“That makes you a smart man.”
“Don’t patronize me,” he said, the warning in his tone unmistakable. He leaned in, his hot breath fanning over my face. “We’re going to wake her up and walk her to the door. If either she or her mother comes back, they’re both dead. I’ll kill the first one through the door, then go after the next. Do you understand?”
I swallowed hard. “Completely.”
He moved the gun just enough so I could raise her up. If it were just my ass on the line, I could’ve made a run for it the moment I saw him, but not with Amber. I would never have risked her life like that.
“Amber, honey,” I said, shaking her softly. “You better get to bed, munchkin.”
She blinked and tried to focus her sleepy eyes on me.
“Your mother’s going to wonder where you are.”
“Okay,” she said, her voice groggy and spent. “I’m sorry. I fell asleep.”
I smiled. “That’s okay, hon. I just don’t want your mom to worry.”
I helped her to her feet and led her as she padded to the door, thanking all things holy she didn’t even notice the monster with the snub-nosed .38 in the room. After one attempt for the closet and one for the pantry, she finally made it out the right door. Walker grabbed my arm then, not allowing me past the threshold. Thankfully, her door was unlocked. She opened it and went inside without another thought.