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“Anytime.” Florence twists, makes an inconspicuous-as-possible run for it, and slams the door behind her.
“Ugh,” I groan, my head bowing to the floor.
Judging from the look on her face, there won’t be any more of these save-the-neighbor operations from Florence. It was brave of her to begin with, a woman in her seventies who couldn’t weigh more than ninety pounds came to my rescue.
She won’t be coming into this unhinged neighbor’s apartment anymore.
Oh, well. What’s done is done. I’ll deal with Theo in case the news gets to him somehow.
But before I do anything, I have to shower. My sweat has dried up by now, and my damp clothes cling to my body. I pick up the knife and drop it into the sink in the kitchen, lock my apartment, turn on the air conditioner, and return to my bathroom.
I take off my hairband, throwing it on the vanity. Next in line are my T-shirt and sports bra, both go to the hamper. I hook my fingers around the waistband of my shorts, about to remove those as well, when I feel the extra weight in my pocket.
My phone. That reminds me of what brought on this mayhem in the first place. Someone called me.
Half-naked in my bathroom, I unlock the phone. The number who called me is one I don’t recognize and isn’t from the LA area, either.
My stomach swoops at the idea it might be Theo. I’ve never gotten sales calls on a weekend, and Michelle shuts off her phone on Sundays.
It’s gotta be Theo. Has to be.
The smile that tears at my face is unlike any I’ve had in a truly long while.
I might mumble with excitement. Might blurt out the wrong thing. But I won’t screen his calls. Making the effort to somehow find my number means he likes me as much as I like him.
It means yesterday was more than just a meaningless fuck to him, too. His possessiveness wasn’t a fleeting feeling. He wants me.
I sigh out loud, clasping my teeth on my bottom lip.
I’m sure to an outsider, I’m a laughable sight. A woman standing in her bathroom, her hair a ratty mess, breasts out and shoulder marked by a wild man who took her virginity and gave her so much more. As if that’s not enough, I’m gazing longingly at my phone, too.
Well, screw the metaphorical outsider.
I’m happy. Naïve and happy. Or happily naïve.
Whatever.
My fingers fly across the screen, dialing the missed call.
I pace the length of the small bathroom back and forth while it rings.
“Hello?” a raspy voice answers, a voice that doesn’t belong to Theo. “Prue? Prue Bishop?”
Doubt creeps up my spine where excitement resided a second ago.
“Um…who’s asking?”
“Zeke Peterson. Her father.” He clears his throat while my world comes crashing down on me. “Or more correctly,yourfather.”
CHAPTER NINE
Prue
“Excuseme?”Imurmur,looking straight ahead. All I see is nothing. “You’re—I-I don’t know my father. No one knows who my father is.”
During my years in the orphanage, I’d constantly badgered the housemothers, demanding they help me find out who my parents were.
When they said they had no idea and that I was dropped on the front steps without a name or a social security number, I started working to afford a detective. At the age of eight. I walked the neighbor’s dogs, babysat kids in the neighborhood. Anything I could.
