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“So now you’re stuck with her in your lanai,” he says.
“Better than the spare room.”
He takes off his shoes and stretches out on the bed. “I knew she wouldn’t accept. She’s a timid rabbit, couldn’t wait to bolt. What do you know about her?”
I shrug. “Not much. I don’t dare ask. If she tells me a tale of woe, I’m liable to offer her a job fixing up the house.” At his look, I say, “She’s a construction worker.”
“That little thing?” He looks over at the broken window screen. “Still, it wouldn’t be a bad idea, hiring someone like that to fix up the house. Cheap reno. And a temporary lodger. That would be safer, living out here.”
How thoughtful of you to suggest it, Liam. Remember now, it was all your idea.
“I’ll consider it,” I say as he pulls me down onto the bed.
Daisy
I wake in tears. Or that’s what it seems as I startle awake to find my pillow damp. Then a warm drop falls on my cheek, and I look up to see a rivulet running down the angled lanai roof. Another leak. I still check my eyes to be sure it’s not really tears. I wouldn’t be surprised—too many memories resurrected, too many regrets for all the things I didn’t do when they needed to be done.
Plink.A drop hits me square in the eye. I sigh and rise to move the lounge chair. As I do, my back crackles. I rub stiff muscles and grimace. Two nights of sleeping on the ground, and when does my body complain? When it actually gets a bed.
Except it’s not a bed. It’s a lounge chair that had looked fine from a distance. Up close, it became clear that my hostess is not the sort to drag a chair into the yard and soak up a few rays. I’d used a damp towel to clean the brittle plastic weave, only to have it crumble under my touch. She’d provided two blankets, and I’d lain between them, my head resting on a pillow so flat it could slide off the lounger and I’d never notice.
I do a few stretches as I contemplate the possibility of sleeping on the floor. Yeah, no. Even two blankets won’t muffle the damp cold of concrete. I lift my face and listen to the pound of rain. Darting back to my shed would be a whole lot more appealing if I wouldn’t get soaked.
I rise, rolling my shoulders, and realize I could use a trip to the toilet. Which is mostly just an excuse to grab another living room blanket. If I set my watch alarm, I can return the extras before Celeste notices.
I walk to the door, turn the knob and...
It’s locked.
Well, damn. I don’t actually need to use the bathroom that badly, but now I’m annoyed that I can’t. No, let’s be honest, I’m annoyed that she felt the need to lock that door. It’s not as if she’s alone in the house. Last I saw, Liam’s Land Rover was still in the drive, suggesting he was spending the night.
I grumble under my breath and move to the window, shading it to measure the distance to the shed. When I see a bobbing light, I squint, struggling to see through a rusted screen and rain-streaked glass.
Someone’s moving fast through the thick trees, circling the house. My hand clenches reflexively, reaching for the gun I keep under my sleeping bag. The sleeping bag—and gun—that I’ve left in the shed.
I glance around for a weapon. There’s an old spade in the corner, trussed to the wall by spiderwebs. I slip over and shake it loose, only to have ancient dirt spatter my feet.
I heft the spade as I follow the light through the trees. It’s the bluish glow of a cellphone. I move as close as I dare to the window. At first, I see only a figure. Then I notice a tan jacket held over a head, the cell phone light glowing beneath it.
Breaking into a house with a cell phone for light... during a tropical storm. Not exactly a world-class thief. Still, this is the state of the greatest superhero who ever lived: Florida Man. Skim any newspaper across the nation, and you’ll find tales of his exploits. “Florida Man Charged with Assault after Throwing Alligator through Drive-Thru Window.” “Florida Man Robs Store Wearing Transparent Bag on His Head.” “Florida Man Gets Tired of Waiting at Hospital and Steals Ambulance to Drive Home.” When it comes to criminals, Florida breeds them stupid. Or, as I prefer to say, “unique.”
In defense of my native state, I’ll point out that part of the blame lies with the open-records laws, where nothing is held back in a criminal incident, leaving all the weirdness as fodder for enterprising headline writers. But this is still the land of guys—and gals—who get drunk and wrestle wild alligators on a dare.
As I watch, the figure slows near my shed. When he glances toward the house, I stop breathing and resist the urge to backpedal. I’m safe here in the dark.
The man’s gaze skips, almost incidentally, over the yard, confident that he won’t be seen. Then he ducks into my shed.
I remember the guy outside my shed last night. It must be the same one. This time, though, I’m not trapped in there, at his mercy.
I’m going to get a better look.
I ease open the back door. It’s pouring rain and pitch black, and all I can see is the moving glow of that cell phone.
Wait. It’s dark because the porch lights are off, yet they’d been on when I went to bed. I know because I’d had to flip over to find darkness. Then I’d woken after midnight, and they’d still been on. Yet they’re out now.
Someone inside the house turned out the porch light, setting the stage for a nighttime shed invasion. I can make out the jacket now. It’s the tan overcoat Liam was wearing when he arrived.
Hello, Liam.
