“Wait,” I called, making her jump. “Your money,” I said, getting the forty bucks out and handing it to her.
“Oh, right. Of course.”
She took it and shoved it down into her purse.
And it was as she was walking out the door that something nagged at me. It took a second to place it.
But it had been right there in front of me.
Her hand with her expensive gel manicure. The rings on her long fingers. The bracelet. The designer label on her bag. The fact that her pants were those pricey leggings all the Pilates girls wore.
Everything about her said she had money.
And more expensive things to hock than a silly little music box.
At the time, though, I shrugged it off. People could be strange. And maybe she needed quick cash to get a fix. Addiction could hit anyone, even girls with nice manicures and expensive running shoes.
I tried not to judge.
So I just did what I’d agreed to.
I tucked the box away.
I kept it safe.
Then I pretty much forgot about it. Because with only forty bucks on the line, it wasn’t something I felt the need to think about.
I probably wouldn’t have given it another thought until I did something like inventory and came across it.
Until Robin Moody’s pretty face flashed on my television. Because she was dead. Murdered.
My first thought was along the lines of,Well, I guess she’s never coming back for the box.
It took a minute for the other thoughts to surface.
For the pieces to start to fall together.
A nervous woman with a weird request.
A box in my care for safekeeping.
Two sketchy men in my store, looking for something.
A messed-up camera.
An open gate.
A broken lock.
What the hell was in that box?
That was worth killing a woman over?
That was worth risking the wrath of the Costa Family to look for when everyone knew most of the establishments on the street were under their protection?
I rushed around my apartment, blowing out candles, then grabbing my purse, shoving a kitchen knife inside of it, and making my way to the door.
Only for Tuna to follow me.
