“I just need to think,” I said, sitting down on one of the dining room chairs and holding my head in my hands. I tried to concentrate, ran my fingers through my hair. I heard the whisp of a name—Sophie—run through my mind. It’s you... . It’s always been you... . I closed my eyes and saw two pinpricks of light flicker behind closed lids. They came into focus and I recognized birthday candles, a fat chocolate cake, pink cheeks pushed out and ready to blow.... I saw myself on my fifth birthday, strawberry-red pigtails bouncing as I tore the wrapping off a Barbie Dream House.
It’s always been you, Ophelia’s breathy voice came again.
The image warbled and I saw Nina’s face, drawn and bruised. Her eyes were red-rimmed and tears dribbled silently as her head lolled, chin on chest.
Sophie, Ophelia sang, won’t you come out to play?
“I think I know where she is,” I mumbled to myself.
“What was that?” Alex asked me.
“A shower. You know”—I shook myself—“this soot and dirt. I think better near water anyway.”
Alex followed me as I headed to my bedroom. I turned around at the threshold, heart pumping. “I’m just going to clean up. I’ll be right back.” I forced a smile. Alex and I had an unspoken agreement that his angelic mind-reading abilities were strictly off limits when it came to me. He let his fingers trail over my bare arm and I knew that his focus was not on my mind.
Alex brushed his lips over mine. He wrapped his arms around me, pushing me into my room, and kissed me hard. I pulled away, licking my lips.
“That doesn’t feel like the kiss of someone who’s expecting me to come back,” I told him. “I’m just getting in the tub.”
Alex pulled me toward him again and nibbled on my bottom lip, flicked his tongue over my ear. “No, that’s the kiss of someone who not only expects you to come back, but who intends to pick up where he left off this morning.”
I felt a delicious shiver in spite of my fear. When I pulled back I looked into Alex’s eyes. “Good to know.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
I closed the door and rummaged through my underwear drawer, finding the gun Alex had given me a year ago. It was now nestled between a lacy thong with the tags still on and a pair of fuzzy socks with polar bears on them. The gun used to live in the freezer, but after an unfortunate accident with a Skinny Cow Mint Dipper, I decided to move it to a safer location. I pulled my bathrobe from the peg by the door, slipped it on, and tucked the gun in my pocket. I trudged out past the guys, head down, shoulders hunched under the guise of girlish modesty—and just as I suspected, they all did their best to look away.
The one benefit of undead men—they’ve got all that old-school chivalry.
I locked the bathroom door behind me and turned the tub on full bore. Then I slid out of my bathrobe, unrolled both of my pant legs, and yanked my discarded sneakers from their “I’m going to get rid of these tomorrow” spot on the floor. I threw my well-thawed .22 into my shoulder bag and added a couple bars of soap for good measure. I wedged the bathroom window open, sucked in my stomach, and launched myself through.
My apartment was on the second floor and my hefty rent gave me a priceless view of a well-tagged brick wall and a bank of Dumpsters—not so useful for romantic dinners on the fire escape, but excellent for a midnight sojourn with destiny. In my own Nadia Comaneci move I vaulted from the end of my fire escape to land in an inglorious belly flop on a pile of bagged garbage. I bit my lip to keep from screaming as I picked my way through splitting bags of God knows what, cursing my neighbors for buying cheap garbage bags and Cala Foods for selling them. I swamp-walked through the trash, willing myself not to breathe, reminding myself that all the slimy hands that I felt reaching out for me were either banana peels or burger wrappers.
When I mercifully reached the rusted metal side of the Dumpster I hauled myself out, landing with an impressive thud on the cement below. I dared a look up to my illuminated bathroom window to check if Alex and the guys were on to me—nope. I took off running then, the sound of my sneakers slapping the pavement echoing through the dark alley.
Halfway to my destination I was heaving and certain my lungs were going to explode; I hailed a cab and paid the shameful $5.65 to go the next six blocks, then tore through the police-station parking lot, mashing my fingers against the elevator’s down button.
“Come on, come on,” I moaned to the molasses-slow machine as I danced from foot to foot. “Come on!” As I waited, I scanned the lineup of menacing-looking mug shots in the MOST WANTED photos and shivered. If Ophelia was just your basic, everyday homicidal maniac or computer hacker, I’d feel a lot better. At least then I’d have the whole police force behind me and she’d stay out of my head—and her mug could be plastered all over the streets of San Francisco, making everyone on high alert.
I stepped inside the elevator and watched the doors close on the safety of the police station vestibule. “I have to do this,” I told myself out loud. Suddenly, the thundering beat of my heart was all I could hear. My mouth went dry and my palms were wet; my stomach seemed to drop with every floor. I dipped my hand into my shoulder bag, fingering the comforting coolness of my gun.