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“What do you think is happening at my house right now?”
I bring the crutch back and offer it to her as she shakily pushes up to stand. Her entire body is stiff, her stance weak, as she searches for balance. “Your home is a crime scene,” I tell her quietly. Truthfully. “Men died in there tonight, Ms. Swanson. And even if they didn’t, you won’t be allowed back for a while.”
“Rory.” She fixes the crutch beneath her left arm and hobbles out from the gap between the coffee table and the couch. She shakily makes her way toward the small kitchenette space, but she doesn’t peek into the fridge. She doesn’t grab a drink or a candy bar. “Ms. Swanson makes me uncomfortable. Why couldn’t I go home, if my home wasn’t a crime scene?”
“Because you’re under police protection.” I sit on the arm of the couch and give her more than enough personal space. “It’s all a bit messy right now. There’s a lot of paperwork and shit that still needs to happen before this becomes official. But…” I point toward her, then back to me. “I said it’s happening tonight. Not tomorrow. Which is why we’re here right now.”
“And what exactly isthis?” She turns her back to the kitchen counter and pushes up to sit. Though I don’t miss her grimace of pain or the emotion that jumps into her eyes when she brings them back to me. “Everything feels crazy and weird.”
“This…” I look down at myself and think of Gregory Vallejo. I think of my partner. And his wife. His kid. I think of all the men I’ve approached Vallejo’s operation with, and all but me have ended up in a grave. “I’m appointing myself as your protective detail,” I tell her. “Whatever happens tomorrow with those cops, whatever they think they’re organizing, I’m staying right here.”
“Those cops? Aren’t youthose copstoo?”
“I’macop,” I agree with a small nod. “I used to be a DEA agent, and now I’m the only man alive who’s been inside Vallejo’s world and come out the other side to tell the story.”
“So you think I need to be protected?” She grabs the neck of her shirt and brings it forward to dip her nose inside, grimacing when she smells what everyone else so easily does. “I stink really bad.”
I drop my gaze and chuckle. “You can go shower, if you want. There are robes in the bathroom you can change into.”
“Will you keep answering my questions?” She slides to the edge of the counter and drops down with a hiss of pain, piquing my curiosity as she grabs her crutch and settles it under her arm. “Will you be like those other cops and brush over the details every time I ask a question?”
“No.” Intrigued by the woman in front of me, I look her up and down. “I’ll tell you the truth.”
“Always?” Her eyes, blue, green, gold, and a kaleidoscope of a million other colors, somehow morph and swim and hold me captive. “You promise to always be straight with me?”
“Sure.” I settle my hands on my thighs and lace my fingers together. “If you promise to always be straight with me.” Then I lift my chin as she half-turns toward the bedroom she came from. “Why are you limping so much?”
“You don’t remember?” Snickering, she hobble-walks toward the hall. “Pretty sure you were there that day my femur was outside my body.”
“I remember. I just meant…” I shrug and drag my eyes from her too-big jeans and slouchy shirt stained with blood and gray matter. “I guess I figured you wouldn’t be in quite as much pain anymore. Still sore,” I acknowledge, “but I thought it would be more manageable by now.”
“You’re right.” She approaches her door and peeks over her shoulder. “I got hit by a car the other night when I was running from those people. Hurt like a bitch,” she exhales. “And though it makes walking difficult again, I’m glad the car got my right side. I’d probably be dead if it clipped my left. I’m going to take a shower.” She goes through her bedroom door and leaves me behind with a horrifying image of her lying in the street. Her femur, destroyed. Her heart, pounding in fear. Her last memories, those of a man’s murder and immediately after, her own. “I’ll be back soon,” she calls out. “Then I have questions. And some demands, too.”
“Demands?” I jump off the end of the couch and take a step in her direction. Though she closes the door and cuts me out. “What kinds of demands?”
“Like, I need to see my mom.” She opens the door an inch and pins me to my spot with her piercing stare. “She’s dying. Soon. And I’ll be damned if I’m hiding away till this other jerkoff goes to trial.”
“Aurora—”
“That’ll be too late. And I’m not trading her for him.”
Rory
BUT WHY?
My own stench makes me sick, but the icy barbs of winter air beating across the bedroom keep my nausea at bay. The tang of vomit is more to me than just the embarrassment of being sick in front of another man.
Men.
However many of them there were.
But rather, a sensory reminder of bad things happening.
More death.
More guns.
More bullets.
