Cross fire, p.16
Cross Fire, page 16
I stared into his deep green eyes. He was doing his best to conceal the hurt from me, but I knew him well enough to recognize the changes in his behavior.
“By the way,” he said as he returned the eggs to the refrigerator and pulled something out from beneath the tub of butter. He held up a twenty-dollar bill between his middle and index finger. “Stop it.”
I raised my eyebrows innocently. “Stop what?”
“Don’t give me what. You know what.” He set the twenty on the counter and slid it toward me. “We talked about this. I don’t want your money.”
“Who says I put it there?”
“I don’t make a habit of stashin’ my money under the butter. I use a bank.”
“Maybe Jordan put it there.”
“Why would Jordan put money in my refrigerator? Or my Tupperware drawer? Or behind the stack of toilet paper rolls in the bathroom cupboard?”
“People do the strangest things.”
“Holly,” he said with a hint of impatience. He folded his arms and gave me a look that made me feel like he was demanding an explanation for the F on my latest report card.
How did he do that?
“You know most people would be happy if money magically appeared around their apartment,” I said. “I would be.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Because that would mean somebody snuck into your apartment while you weren’t there and left it.”
Fair point. I would probably freak out and call him to come find out who broke into my apartment. “I’m using your water and electricity, and you won’t let me buy groceries. And I’m eating . . . or burning all of your food.”
“First of all, you eat like a bird, so you’re not exactly breakin’ the bank. Second of all, it’s my house, which means I make the rules.”
I folded my arms and straightened my spine. “I refuse to be a burden.”
He frowned. “You’re not a burden. I invited you into my home, and I know you know better than to entertain some silly notion that I feel obligated to have you here.”
“I know that. But I need to contribute.”
“You do,” he said. “I sleep easier knowin’ you’re here with me instead of at your apartment where Collin can get to you. You bein’ here gives me peace of mind.”
I couldn’t tell if he honestly meant it or if he was just trying to placate me.
“Now,” he began, tapping the twenty-dollar bill with two fingers. “Did you hide any more of these?” When I pinched my lips together, he sighed, “Where?”
I lifted my chin. “I’m not telling.”
He shook his head and smiled. “You’re as stubborn as a brick wall.” He left the twenty-dollar bill on the counter and prepared some toast for breakfast. “Are you spendin’ the day with Jordan or do you wanna come to work with me? You’re welcome to stay in the break room, but it might be a long day.”
The break room? It was the size of a prison cell. I had no desire to spend twelve hours in that cramped space, and I was pretty sure Jordan had to be tired of shadowing me.
Someone knocked on the door before I had a chance to decide. Marx shook his head when I moved to answer it, and I sank back down on the stool as he strode into the living room and peered through the peephole. I was surprised to see Jordan standing on the other side of the door when he opened it.
Marx grimaced. “Speak of the devil.”
Jordan arched a blond eyebrow at him. “I’m not sure whether to be insulted because he’s the epitome of all evil or flattered because he was the best-looking angel.”
Marx released a long-suffering sigh and stepped aside, widening the door. “Try not to get your big head stuck in my doorway.”
Jordan grinned as he stepped inside. He blinked at the bacon smog and waved a hand through the smoky air. “Was there a fire?”
“Very nearly.” Marx closed the door. “Holly made breakfast.” He said that like it explained everything, and I scowled at him as he walked past me into the kitchen.
Jordan plopped on the stool farthest from where I was sitting, leaving the middle one open, and asked, “So what are your plans for the day?”
“Oh, um . . .” I looked between the two men with uncertainty before admitting, “I thought I might just stay here by myself and watch movies. Give you guys a break for the day.”
“By yourself,” Marx said slowly, frowning. His disapproving tone didn’t bode well for my plans.
“With the door locked,” I added.
“Collin has to know you haven’t been home, and he saw you in my car. If he hasn’t put it together yet, it’s only a matter of time before he realizes you’re stayin’ with me. I don’t want you here alone if he shows up at my door.”
“So . . . I won’t open the door. I’ll stay away from the windows, and I promise I won’t cook anything . . . unless it’s in the microwave.” When he started to shake his head, I said, “I just . . . need some time alone.”
“It’s not worth the risk.” When I started to object to his objection, he spoke first. “You’re not stayin’ here by yourself. You know what he’ll do to you if he manages to get you alone.”
My stomach flipped over, and I shrank down on the stool at the terrifying thought.
Marx leaned on the counter and leveled a look at me. “What’s this really about, Holly?”
“I told you already.”
“I have no doubt that you would like some time alone, but that’s not what this is about.” At my perplexed frown, he explained, “Do you know what micro expressions are?”
“Um . . . I know micro machine cars are the tiny versions of real cars, so . . . the tiny versions of expressions?” I glanced at Jordan, who tried to conceal his smile. “Is that wrong?”
“No, that’s right,” Marx said. “When you try to be sneaky or deceptive, you have certain micro expressions.”
I tried to make my face blank. I didn’t like the idea of it doing things I didn’t want it doing. “Like what?”
Jordan looked at me, and his eyes twinkled with amusement. “Your lips do this cute little twitching thing.”
“They do not.” I tucked my lips between my teeth self-consciously.
Marx smiled. “Yes, they do. Which is how I know you wantin’ to stay here alone has absolutely nothin’ to do with you wantin’ alone time. This is about you feelin’ like a burden again, isn’t it?”
I cupped my hands over the bottom half of my face and said, “No.”
Jordan laughed, and Marx just shook his head with a smile. “That just makes it more obvious, Holly.”
I sighed and dropped my hands. “We’re gonna have to go back to having conversations through doors so you can’t read my face.”
“You’re stashin’ money around my apartment because you feel guilty for eatin’ my food, and now you’re tryin’ to avoid us because you feel like an inconvenience for needin’ one of us to be with you at all times.”
“Because that’s exactly what I am.”
He rubbed his forehead as if my reasoning gave him a headache. “You are in no way an inconvenience or a burden, Holly. I promise you that.”
“It’s not fair to either of you that you have to shuffle your schedules around so you can essentially babysit me every day.”
Jordan crossed his arms and looked at Marx. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I would much rather spend my time sitting in my bland motel room that smells like lemon cleaner, eating leftover pizza, and watching re-runs of Family Guy than spend my day with a pretty girl.”
Marx’s brows drew together. “I don’t watch Family Guy.”
“Yeah, but you’re pushing fifty, so that’s not really a surprise.”
Marx gave Jordan a flat look. “It’s a wonder I can’t bring myself to like you.”
I let out an exasperated breath. “I just thought maybe you would wanna do something without me tagging along. I’m monopolizing all of your guys’ time, and that’s not fair to you or the other people in your lives.”
“Exactly who is it you think you’re deprivin’ of my company?” Marx asked. “My family lives in Georgia, there are very few people in this city I would call friends, and I work with two of the three.”
Sam and Captain McNera, I assumed.
“Who’s the third?” I wondered. Surely not Jordan. A few months ago I would’ve said Jacob, but he was nothing but a memory now.
Marx gave me a patient smile, and I felt abruptly awkward when I realized he considered me his third friend. “Oh.”
“And I don’t live here, so it’s not like I have anybody to hang out with.” Jordan shrugged.
I gave him a reproachful look. “You should be on your way home by now to see your family and do your job.”
“Yeah, about that . . . I’m taking an extended leave of absence. And before you get angry with me,” he said when I started to argue, “it’s my life, and I’ve been with my family for twenty-eight years. This, right here”—he gestured between us—“I’ve been waiting eighteen years for this.”
That brought my argument to an abrupt halt. I had forgotten how long he’d searched for me, and how long he’d waited for exactly this: spending time together.
“Sorry,” I muttered, tucking my hands between my knees. “I didn’t really think about it that way.”
“I realize you didn’t miss me like I did you all those years because of your memory loss, but if I didn’t wanna be here, Holly, I wouldn’t be.” He stood up and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “Now, I’d like to play a game of pool. You up for that?”
“I don’t know how to play pool.”
“It’s not that hard. I’ll teach you.”
Marx’s phone rang, and he grabbed it off the counter to look at the caller before starting down the hall. “You two have fun.” He paused briefly and looked back at me. “And Holly, if you get another call from an unknown number, don’t answer it. Or just hand the phone to Jordan.”
I nodded and then slid off the stool to change for our outing.
Jordan’s assurance that pool wasn’t hard apparently didn’t apply to me, because I spent more time trying to figure out how to play the game than actually playing it.
I shifted my fingers on the pool stick, trying to find the right position. Why was holding a giant stick so complicated? I let the end of the stick thump on the floor between my feet and declared, “There’s something wrong with my stick.”
Jordan was making a polite effort not to laugh at me. “It’s not the stick. Let me show you how to do it again.”
He came closer and lined his stick up parallel to mine.
I tried to mimic the placement of his hands. “Okay, now what?”
“Now you draw it back slowly and aim at the white ball. Try to knock it into the others.”
I did as he suggested, but the stick slipped and skipped off the green cloth of the table without ever touching the ball. I pinched my lips in concentration and tried again. I hit the ball the fourth time, but it went lopsided and rolled around the table without touching any of the others.
I dropped the pool stick back to the floor, feeling flustered. “What am I doing wrong?”
“It takes practice. I could show you how to do it better, but . . .” He leaned leisurely on his pool stick and smiled. “That would require me to trespass.”
I pointed my pool stick at him threateningly. “Permission not granted.”
He grinned, and it brought out his dimples. “That’s okay. I just figured I would wait until no one was looking and then sneak across the border. Happens all the time.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“While you’re armed with a stick you could probably beat me over the head with? No.”
“Maybe I would just kick your legs out from under you again.”
“Yeah, sneaky ninja, that’s never happening again.” He recentered the white ball and lined up his shot. There was a loud crack as the balls connected and scattered across the table. “Your turn, my lady.”
I glanced at the white ball in the middle of the table and then cast Jordan a questioning look. “And I’m supposed to hit that how?”
“However you can.”
I walked around the table, considering my options, and Jordan moved around the table with me in order to stay on the four-foot perimeter. I took two steps forward, and he took two steps back.
I did it again, and he grinned as he retreated. “You’re doing that on purpose.”
“Mmmaybe.” I took another slow, deliberate step toward him, and he laughed as he backed up.
“Keep that up and pretty soon we’ll be dancing, and then I’m gonna be tempted to do things I shouldn’t.”
I gave him a wary but amused look as I stopped. “Such as?”
His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Keep stepping toward me and you’ll find out.” I took a step back instead, and he grinned wickedly. “Chicken.”
I lifted my chin as I took another step back, bumping into the table. “I am not a chicken.” I doubted he would actually follow through with whatever he was thinking, but I didn’t want to chance it by stepping closer.
He remained where he was and nodded toward the table with that mischievous smile still tugging at his lips. “Take your shot before I take it for you.”
I assessed my options and then hopped up onto the edge of the table. I raised the pool stick like I was about to spear a fish, and stabbed the white ball as hard as I could. It bounced and smacked into another ball. “Ha! I got one!” I shouted happily.
“Get off the table!” a man bellowed from behind the checkout counter.
I hopped down, and Jordan shook his head with a smile. “You’re gonna get us thrown out.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t let him get too rough with you when he tosses you into the street.”
“Oh, well, if you’re gonna be there to protect me, then I’m not worried.”
It took us nearly an hour to finish our pool game. I managed to sink two of my balls into the holes by the time all of Jordan’s were nestled tightly in the pockets. He waited patiently for me to finish with mine, but I surrendered halfway through, chucked the stick aside, and started rolling the stubborn balls into the pockets. That stupid stick just complicated matters.
“You are officially the worst pool player ever,” Jordan informed me as we walked leisurely down the sidewalk.
“I blame the stick.”
“Yeah, it’s the inanimate object’s fault.”
“Precisely,” I agreed. I tipped my head back to look up at the gray sky. Small snowflakes fluttered down from the swollen clouds, and I blinked as they landed on my eyelashes.
“You never have been good at anything sports related.”
I didn’t have many talents. Some people were gifted in many different areas, but I wasn’t one of them. I was a fast runner, and I was a decent photographer. That pretty much concluded the list.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I could probably take some good pictures of sports players.”
“You ever take pictures of things that aren’t people?”
I caught a snowflake on my palm and smiled as it instantly melted. “Sometimes. I took a picture of a snowflake once. It’s one of my favorites.”
“If you have an album, I’d like to see it sometime.”
I blinked in surprise. “Really?”
He gave me a half-amused, half-puzzled look. “Yeah, really.”
I had a memory card full of photos of nature and architecture, but I had never shared them with anyone. No one had ever asked before. “Maybe I’ll show them to you someday.”
My phone chirped, and I pulled it out to check my messages. A picture from an unknown number loaded on the screen, and I jerked to a stop.
A little girl with chocolate-brown skin and black ringlets stood in front of a familiar building that no one should have been able to link to me. The caption of the picture read, “Such a sweet girl.”
“Everything okay?” Jordan asked.
Another picture came through of eight-year-old Maya playing hopscotch on the sidewalk, accompanied by the message:
I do hope nothing happens to her while she’s playing outside alone.
“No,” fell beneath my breath.
I took off toward the building that was only two blocks away. I weaved through the busy street at a flat-out run.
“Holly, wait!” Jordan shouted.
He must have followed me across the road, because I heard blaring horns and screeching tires.
Lord, please don’t let him hurt Maya.
I might not be able to prove it, but I knew Collin had sent these pictures, and he had no reservations about hurting children.
Jordan caught up to me quickly, dropping his speed to match mine. Relief almost brought me to my knees when we reached the retired fire station, and I saw Maya happily skipping through the chalk squares she had drawn on the sidewalk.
I looked around the area frantically, searching for Collin. My eyes landed on the exact place where he had taken the picture from—judging by the angle and lighting—but he was gone.
I offered my phone to Jordan as I scanned the fire escapes and small balconies of the surrounding buildings for any sign of him. “He was here.”
I pointed to where Collin had been standing, and Jordan walked over to check out the area.
“Well he’s not here now,” he said.
A frown knitted his eyebrows together as he glanced at the side of the building and then away. I walked over to join him and froze when my eyes fell on the spot that had briefly drawn his attention.
Written across the brick siding with purple chalk that matched Maya’s hopscotch squares were the words “Hello, Little Bird.”
I felt a spasm of fear.
Collin called me Little Bird because his nearness left me frozen, trembling, and sucking in shallow, fluttering breaths like a “frightened little bird.”
He knew I would come here, and this message was a cruel reminder that he could still reduce me to that terrified little creature.
I bent down without thinking and picked up the sliver of chalk Collin had probably used to write the message, and scratched at the words, my efforts growing more furious and frantic.
