Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(67)

“What do you mean?”

“Fake-Everett’s already told me he’s going to kill me and feed me to the gators. Conner touches me, Fake-Everett will kill him, too. Both of us. And take all the money, drugs, whatever it was Conner promised. Fake-Everett doesn’t negotiate. He steals. He hoards. He is awful, but he’s consistent. Conner doesn’t understand yet. He’s as dead as I am.”

“Where is Conner?”

“Walking ahead of us. Straight into the parking lot. He has square shoulders. Strong, fit. Fake-Everett’s fingers are digging into my arm. He’s dragging me out of the bar. I can feel the rage coming off him in waves. I think he would like to kill me right now. Or maybe it’s Conner that he hates so much.”

“How do you feel?”

“Like I’m going to vomit. But I have to hold it in, time it right.”

“For what?”

“Parking lot. The air is warm, humid. For the first time, I’m not chilled. Except now I’m breaking into a sweat. But it’s okay. I know what I’m doing. I got this.

“People disappear, climb into their pickup trucks. Conner stops. Looks back at us. And then—I vomit. All over his shoes. He jumps back. Swears. Yells. Others turn, start to pay attention. Fake-Everett waves them off. I can still feel his anger, but it’s softer. Conner is backing up. No one wants a puker.

“Conner turns away,” I whisper. “He leaves without me. And I know Fake-Everett isn’t happy, but then I also know exactly what to say. You’ve been gone for a week. I just want to be with you. Only you. Fake-Everett thinks he’s so smart. He thinks he’s the one in control. But I have my tricks, too.

“Fake-Everett isn’t angry anymore. Fake-Everett takes me back to the motel. And I survive another day.”

I’m tired suddenly. So exhausted my head slumps forward. I’m not thinking of popcorn or beer or country music. I’m thinking of the intense fatigue of all those minutes, hours, days. Never knowing if I would make it. Hating my life, but still not quite able to give it up. Eking out each moment because the will to live makes it harder than you think to simply let go.

Samuel’s hand, solid on my shoulder. “Flora, open your eyes.”

I do, but I still feel blurry, out of it.

“It’s okay. Take a moment. You did good.”

A bottle of water appears before me. I drink it gratefully, washing the aftertaste of beer from my mouth. I hardly ever drink, and certainly not Jacob’s favorite beer. I’m shivering slightly. I realize I’m barely dressed and find my pile of clothes, pulling each layer back on.

The others are behind me, murmuring in low voices.

“Conner was one of Conrad’s fake IDs,” D.D. is saying.

“Abita Select Amber is one of the top-selling beers in Mississippi,” Quincy supplies.

Keith says nothing. Comes to sit beside me. Remains silent, for which I’m grateful.

“The tapping,” Samuel says. He rests his dark hand on the table, finds the pattern. It jars me a little, the sound from my head playing out in real life.

He regards all of us expectantly. “No military backgrounds?” he presses.

Keith suddenly lights up. “Oh my God. He was tapping in Morse code!”

“Exactly.”

“What was he saying?” D.D. asks.

“He wasn’t. He was asking a question, the same question, over and over. He was asking, ‘Are you okay?’ But Flora never answered him.”





CHAPTER 22


    EVIE


BEFORE RETURNING HOME, I CONVINCE Mr. Delaney to swing by CVS for some basic supplies. I find a gigantic purse. Cheap brown leather, covered in miscellaneous pockets and snap detailing meant to make it look urban cool. Definitely not my classic Coach Christmas gift from Conrad. My mom will hate it. I smile as I sling it over my shoulder.

I pick out a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, light makeup. My mother has the bathroom fully stocked but I want my own toiletries. Brands I prefer.

I find myself in front of hair dye for a long time. Mr. Delaney has wandered off. No doubt trying to give me space. Alone in the pharmacy store aisle, I find myself thinking like the murder suspect I truly am. Maybe I should think beyond my preferred hair gel. What about a bug-out kit? New hair color, new hairstyle? Sunglasses, hat? If I ever want to leave my mother’s house, it will require some subterfuge.

So I do it. A rich brunette to cover my ash blond. Then, while I’m at it, a cheap purple scarf, oversized sunglasses. Then I go a little nuts in the hair accessory section, from scissors to hair extensions to flowered barrettes. I don’t know why I pick the things I pick, and yet it all makes perfect sense. Next up, pen and notepad. Then, even better, I stumble across a rack of prepaid cells. I select three. Again, not sure why. It feels right.

I need money. But my ATM card melted in the house fire. Maybe Mr. Delaney will take me to my local bank, where I can withdraw in person. Or loan me money? I feel uncomfortable, like I’m crossing some line; then I order myself to get over it. I can’t be dependent on my mom and helpless in the face of whatever is going to happen next. Between retrieving my passport and financial documents from the safe, and now this little shopping expedition, I’m going to make it.

I head back to the checkout line. Mr. Delaney magically reappears. He already has a credit card in hand, which makes me feel self-conscious again. Then he spots the prepaid cells. Without another word, he returns his credit card, extracts cash instead.