Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths, #3)(60)

Ginger finally breaks the silence. “Cain seemed pretty spooked tonight.” Her gaze never leaves the television as she sips her beer.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he had said. Do what? Have a relationship? Is that what Cain thinks is going to happen between us? It can’t! And yet when he said it, I can’t pretend I didn’t feel a burst of warmth in my chest, radiating outward to my limbs, my desire to curl into him overpowering.

“I’ve never done this.” If that’s true, then I can’t help but wonder . . . what was Penny to him?

“Did you ever meet her?” I ask. “Penny?”

Ginger sighs. “Oh . . . yeah. I started working at The Bank about two months before she died.”

“What was she like?”

“I didn’t know her well. She was gorgeous. Blond, brown eyes, like you. So many customers came in just for her. She seemed nice. Not catty, like some of the other girls.” With a chuckle, she admits, “She was a pole dancer as well. You remind me of her. Your style, I mean. You’re classy and kind of artistic, if you can use the word artistic to describe that sort of thing.”

“And her fiancé? You said he killed her?”

She takes a long sip of her drink as her head bobs up and down. “Yeah . . . their relationship was all a little bit fast and strange. I think Penny had really low self-esteem and was just looking for a nice guy who’d want her. She wasn’t the kind of girl who ever took school seriously or had a lot of ambition. More the type to pop out a baseball team and bake pies for the rest of her life.” A quick hand goes up. “No judgment here! That many babies is ambitious. And I plan on baking pies too. Only I’ll be doing it for customers at my high-end wine country inn. But . . .” She pauses. “The guy was a customer. A quiet, balding man. Nothing special. But one private dance from her and he was sunk.”

I wonder if that’s why Cain won’t let me do private dances.

Ginger nods slowly. “He came in to visit almost every night. Took her out to dinner and sent her flowers a lot. We weren’t too surprised when she showed up at work with a rock on her hand after only a few months. He didn’t want her dancing anymore, and I remember her saying that no one other than her husband could tell her what to do, so . . .” Ginger’s shoulders lift and drop.

“What else do you remember about her?”

Ginger’s mouth twists in thought. “She was a bit flighty. One week she was gushing over the beach wedding they were going to have, the next week it was going to be a big church wedding in her hometown. Then, all of a sudden, she was leaving the next day for Vegas.”

Nodding slowly, I ask, “And Cain? How did he take it?”

Ginger’s shoulders bob. “He shook the guy’s hand, said congratulations. I don’t know . . . Cain is Cain. If something was going on between them, they hid it well. He never came out to drool over her onstage every night . . .” I feel Ginger’s sidelong glance at me, but I keep my eyes trained on the television. “I don’t know that Penny was the type to hold a secret like sleeping with the boss, though.”

“What happened after she died?”

Ginger puffs out her cheeks and releases a lung’s worth of air. “It was messy. Roger was convicted and he went to jail. The Bank never reopened after that night. Cain sold it as soon as the cops were done with their investigation. Apparently he disappeared for a month to do God knows what. The only person he’d talk to was Nate, who lived with him at the time.

“And then suddenly he showed up at my apartment one day a few months later, telling me he was opening up a new club in Penny’s name and asking me if I wanted a job.”

We fall into silence then as I mull over her words. Is that why he has taken to me as he has? Because I remind him of someone he clearly cared deeply for? Possibly loved? Am I just a living memory?

I’ll never get a chance to find out. I’ve accepted that I have to leave.

Tomorrow.

I can’t risk going to another drop after what happened with Bob. And I’ve likely inspired some doubt on Sam’s part now, with my questions. For all I know, Sam could be on a plane, heading down here to interrogate me.

But am I ready for this?

Can I just pick up and walk away from this little apartment I’ve unintentionally started thinking of as home? Can I say good night to Ginger tonight when really I mean goodbye?

Can I just walk away from Cain? Forget what might have been?

Into the quiet, dimmed apartment, I hear myself say, “Ginger, you’re a really good friend.”

There’s a long pause, and I imagine she’s wondering if there’s something else I’m not saying. Finally she just sighs. “I know I am, Charlie.”

■ ■ ■

I may be a tad paranoid.

Still, I hold my gun close to my thigh as I peer through the blinds at the unfamiliar man outside my window, a slight tremble to my grip. In his dark khaki pants and white golf shirt, with an electronic signature machine and a large white box in his hands, he definitely looks like a delivery guy. But what is he delivering? And how did he get in here? I didn’t buzz him in.

I flip the safety switch off but then quickly flip it back on as memories of my old neighbor shooting himself in the foot flash through my mind. I shouldn’t even be holding a gun right now, as tired as I am after tossing and turning all night, my stomach roiling, unable to shut my mind off as it tried to convince me to stay. At about six a.m,, I finally gave up and crawled out of bed to pack.