Not to leave me here to deal with this alone.
We called a real estate agent yesterday afternoon, for both the shop and the house. The woman’s name is Becca. She sounds like she knows what she’s doing. We also contacted a lawyer, to get the ball rolling on the estate settlement. I think Ian’s secretly hoping that I’ll change my mind and decide to stay in San Francisco to run Black Rabbit. That emptying the shop of Ned and giving it a fresh look will suddenly inspire me to make it my own. I don’t see that happening. I’ve already got a place to stay in New York lined up with friends, if I want. Or maybe I’ll head to Seattle.
But what is going to happen before I leave is this chair is going into a goddamn Dumpster so no one ever sits in it again. Whoever buys this shop will just have to get a new one.
I look down at myself, at my tight, torn—on purpose—jeans and my Ruckus Apparel T-shirt, smeared with dust and God knows what else, and chastise myself for not dressing more appropriately. Not that my clothing choice is going to give me the rusted-bolt-twisting superpowers that I need right now anyway.
I drop to my knees, the wood grain rough against my exposed skin, and I grit my teeth as I throw my full weight—which isn’t nearly enough—against the wrench’s handle. It doesn’t move, not a fraction of an inch.
It hasn’t my last five tries either. This time, though, I actually lose my balance and tumble over flat on my back. “Fuck!” I yell, whipping the wrench across the floor to clatter noisily in a corner. I pull myself up and lean back against the chair and close my eyes, tears of frustration threatening to spill.
Of course someone chooses that moment to knock on the glass pane in the door.
The sudden sound makes me jump. Most sudden sounds have been making me jump lately.
“Closed!” I holler. I’m in no mood to deal with anyone and kick myself for not shutting the steel grate. I can’t bring myself to pull the shades, though. It makes Black Rabbit too dark, too isolated.
Too much like that night.
“Ned was halfway done with my sleeve,” a guy’s muffled voice answers from outside.
“Well, then I guess you’re only going to have half a sleeve.”
“Come on, Ivy . . .” he pleads in a whiny voice.
With an irritated sigh, I open one eye and take in the burly man pressed against the glass, watching me. “I don’t know you.” Ned worked a lot of strange hours, though, especially in the mornings. It’s quite possible this guy sat in this chair for five hours before I ever stepped in here.
Or maybe he isn’t a client of Ned’s and he’s here to hurt me because I gave the police information about “Mario.” It’s a worry that lodged in the back of my mind a few days after the initial shock wore off. What if I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see? What if someone thinks I know something that I don’t? I certainly don’t have any valuable intel. The police thanked me for my help with the information I provided—a first name and shiny black combat boots, and a mediocre description of the cash register man’s profile that hasn’t resulted in any leads through the media so far. There’s a good chance that Ned’s murder will go unsolved. Detective Fields was considerate enough to spell that out to Ian and me when we asked.
The bushy blond beard covering the man’s face doesn’t hide his broad smile. “You mean to tell me you don’t remember the scrawny kid who’d come in here with toy race cars, wanting to play?”
That does sound familiar. I frown. “Bobby?” Son of Moe, one of Ned’s biker customers? This guy looks nothing like that scrawny kid. He could easily pass for thirty, even though I remember him being younger than me.
“In the flesh.”