Chapter Nine
I slammed the car door and darted through the rain into my apartment. In the doorway, I removed my mud-caked shoes, torn stockings, and soiled sweater and dress. I ambled to the bedroom closet and put on a robe and a pair of flip-flop slippers. With an armful of soiled clothes, I headed out the back door and descended the exterior stairs to the basement laundry room. Debra, the upstairs tenant, and I shared the washer and dryer down cellar, which was only accessible by a separate exterior entrance. Fortunately, an awning covered the outside staircase.
The old unfinished cellar housed spiders and centipedes of exceptional size, and I never knew when I’d find a flooded floor from the sewer backup. I grabbed the key from under the mat and realized I didn’t need it. I pushed open the unlatched door—Debra often left it unlocked. I flipped on the switch to the dangling bulb, but the light didn’t turn on.
Great.
In the darkness, I headed to the washer. A dehumidifier rattled on the other side of the room. I tried to ignore the eerie storage area filled with dusty stacks of boxes, random house items, and even a creepy dress form.
I strained to see as I opened the lid of the washer and dropped in my clothes with a detergent pod. I hit buttons, and the machine rumbled to life. I turned to head back upstairs when a gust of air blew across my face and tickled my neck. I froze. I tried not to think of the fact that I believed in ghosts. Cool air continued to circulate around me, and goose bumps covered my forearms. The basement window gaped open. I reached up to shut it and brushed my hand through a sticky web. I gasped, busted outside, and darted up the stairs as fast as I could.
I hated that old creepy basement.
My chest heaved, and I locked the back door. With everything that had been happening the past few days, my nerves were fraying. I could almost feel them, popping one fiber at a time. I wondered why the basement window was open. The most obvious reason dawned on me, which was that someone had tried to break in. Or maybe someone had broken in. Or maybe someone had broken in and was still in the basement. My legs felt like jelly, and I dove for my cell phone. I called Patrick’s number, but it went to voicemail.
“Hey, Patrick, it’s me. Please call me. Thanks.”
I tiptoed through the apartment and surveyed each room and closet. Nothing appeared to be touched or disturbed. I relaxed a smidgen.
A forceful knock sounded at the front door, and I dropped behind the couch to hide from view. My heart thumped like the dribbling of a basketball. There was another loud knock. I didn’t move as I waited for whoever it was to go away.
I fumbled with my phone when I heard a man’s voice from outside.
“June! Are you in there?”
Patrick. I wanted to cry with relief. “Just a second.”
I scrambled up from my crouched position and opened the door. Still in uniform, Patrick stepped inside from the foyer. I followed his gaze to my black bra, where my housecoat gaped open. Patrick raised his eyebrows, and the corner of his mouth turned up.
“Hi,” I said and shrugged my shoulders. I tried to smile, but a sob tore out of my chest. I couldn’t talk.
Patrick kicked the door shut and plunged toward me. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
My body shook. “Sorry. Just freaking out a bit here.”
“Why? What happened?”
“It’s probably nothing, but I found the basement window open.”
“Show me.”
I paused at the threshold of the back door and stared out into the glistening wet darkness. I couldn’t move.
Patrick pulled the gun from his hip. “Lock yourself in the bathroom, June.”
In a flash, he disappeared down the stairwell.
I listened for any sound from below. There was a crash and then nothing. I couldn’t stand there like a frozen scaredy-cat, so I grabbed the biggest knife from the knife block. I descended the steps, my thighs shaky with each step. I opened the basement door. Moonglow drifted in, but I didn’t see Patrick.
“Patrick?” I whispered.
At the back of the room, something shifted in the darkness, and then a beam of light flared. Patrick appeared from behind the storage pile with a flashlight.
“It’s okay, June. I’m here,” he said.
“Did you find anything?”
“I don’t want to alarm you, but there was definitely someone down here. I already called it in.”
“Oh.” My stomach clenched.
“Have a look,” he said and went over to the hanging light bulb. He rotated it farther into the socket, and it lit up. “It appears someone loosened it. We’ll have to check it for prints, as well as the door and window. It looks like they jimmied the window open, and there are some muddy footprints.”
I squeezed the shaft of the knife.
Patrick looked at my clinched hand. “Way to hustle, darling.”
I choked out a laugh. “How do you do this sort of stuff all the time without heart failure?”
“Training, experience,” he said. “How about we get out of here?”
Patrick followed close behind me as we climbed the stairs and reentered my apartment. I slid the knife back into the wooden block and clasped my hands together to steady them.
“The thought of a stranger being down there is unnerving. I can’t shake it,” I said. “I wish I could be as brave and calm as you. You’re really incredible. You can think when there’s danger, you’re adept and—”
“June, don’t idolize me.”
It took me aback how he accepted no accolades. He was humble, or perhaps at one time had been humbled.
He took my hand and led me to the couch. I nestled against him. He stroked my back, and I closed my eyes. His closeness and warmth were like a secure hammock. I loved the strength of his mind and body.
“June?”
I opened my eyes and sat up. Lights flashed outside.
“The detectives arrived. Will you be okay staying here alone while I assist downstairs?”
Tears stung my eyes.
Worry crinkled Patrick’s brow, and he put an arm around me. “You’re shaking.”
“Sorry,” I whispered. My fear multiplied, irrationally.
“June, I want you to stay at my place tonight. Would that be okay with you?”
I nodded, relieved I’d be somewhere that felt safe. But would anywhere be safe until we solved this case?
“Patrick? Can I ask you a favor?”
“Of course.”
“Would you mind taking me shopping sometime?”
“Yes, absolutely. Need a dose of retail therapy?” He smiled. “What do you want to buy?”
I glanced at his belt and then back up at him.
“A gun.”