Chapter Three
The dark storage closet had never felt so unfamiliar. Drea popped into this tiny space for sugar and napkins a thousand times a day. And now she was going to die here, without ever leaving Miami. Oh God. Who would take care of her mom?
“If you’d tell me what you’re looking for, I might be able to help.
” Drea yelled through the locked door. It took tremendous effort to sound so controlled when the inside of her stomach had turned to Jell-O.
The floor was cool as she edged a little closer to Cujo’s leg, making it look like she was simply trying to get comfortable.
The closet was small. The guy had instructed her to tie Cujo’s hands together with fucking cable ties. “It’s okay, Shortcake,” Cujo had reassured her as she pulled them tight. The strips of plastic bit into her own skin. Better to keep her wrists still.
Their assailant reminded her of the Whitesnake dude her mom loved so much. Snake. The name fit him perfectly.
Cujo stood, switching from foot to foot in their small confines. Nothing he tried loosened the ties. She heard him rub them along a shelf edge. Blunt. Useless. Like everything else in this stupid closet.
Drawers banged in the kitchen area. They’d all been opened at some point today. If anything strange had been hidden in there, somebody would have found it.
Drea rested her hands over her shins, and hugged them closer. Cujo crouched down next to her.
“You didn’t think to tell me over dinner this might happen?” he whispered.
“And say what exactly?” she hissed. “Hey, a woman got chased out of the café. I don’t know who she was. I don’t know who the perps are. How was I to know he’d come back?”
She mentally considered all the items on the shelves, wishing she’d paid more attention to those MacGyver repeats her mom insisted on watching. MacGyver would know how to escape using a gallon drum of ketchup, a twenty-five pound bag of sugar, and five thousand napkins.
There were no tools of any sort. Nothing to help jimmy the door.
“Did you just say perps?” Cujo let out a nervous chuckle.
“Perps, crims, miscreants, felons. I’ve watched my share of crime drama. Who cares what I called them?”
Cujo shook his head. “Only you could make me smile when the only thing separating me from a gun is a crappy piece of plywood.” He stood and continued fumbling around in the dark, presumably looking for something to help them.
“I know you probably don’t give a shit,” she yelled, “but my mom needs my help. She’ll call the police if I don’t get home soon.”
“Oh, I know she does.”
“How do you know that?” Drea stood, faced the door. Cujo pulled her behind him, driving her back up against the storage room wall. He had her rammed so tight in the corner her chest was constricted.
She poked Cujo in the back. “I can’t breathe.”
“You won’t need to if he gets a shot off in your chest.”
“Are you trying to be a hero, Cujo?” She lowered her forehead to his back.
“Shut up, Drea,” he said softly.
“Sit on the floor.” The lock clicked and the door opened quickly.
Being face-to-face with a gun wasn’t going to get easier. Cujo positioned himself between her and Snake.
“Please,” Drea begged. “Just let us go, I won’t tell a soul. I promise. Just let us out of here.”
Snake crouched and faced her, still holding the gun in one hand, stroking the barrel with the other. “See, sugar, you and I weren’t meant to meet again.”
Did he know she’d called the police the last time? She had a feeling that if he did, the reunion would be unsalvageable.
“But him…” Snake jerked his chin in Cujo’s direction.
Drea turned to Cujo. His eyes hardened as he stared at Snake. Anger rippled off him in waves, yet he sat still.
“I think you’re a smart girl, who’ll keep her mouth shut,” he said inching closer. He used the barrel of the gun to move her hair away from cheek. “I’ve met girls who didn’t.” His voice was harsher. “Girls who say one thing and do another.”
Drea yelped as he used her hair to force her head to the side, jamming the gun under her jaw.
“That’s why I like insurance. So you and your friend breathe a word to anyone about this and I’ll go find Rosa.
” His roughened voice was tinged with something incongruent to his words.
Sadness maybe. Weariness. It didn’t make sense.
“And those bills of yours will go unpaid when your brains are plastered all over that pretty little house you both live at. And you don’t want to know what I’ll do to your precious little cousin, Milo.”
Drea’s eyes opened wide. How could Snake have found out all that extra information?
“And you.” Snake turned the gun on Cujo, who continued to foolishly stare the guy down. The comments that had reduced Drea to fits of uncontrolled shaking seemed to have little or no effect on him at all. “I am assuming you like this girl’s head on her shoulders.”
“Fuck you.”
“Hmm. So bold.” Snake put the gun to Cujo’s temple, pulled back the trigger, the click echoing.
“So”—his voice turned friendly again—“do we understand each other, Andrea?”
She nodded, unable to speak. The intruder smiled.
“Very good, sweet pea.” He gripped her shoulder. “Because I would hate to ruin that beautiful face.”
Drea watched as he walked down the hall, waited for the reassuring click of the rear door closing shut. She slumped against Cujo; his lips brushed the top of her head.
“Fuck, Shortcake.”
“Yeah. Fuck.” Her heart stuttered in her chest.
Cujo pushed himself to his feet and clumsily helped Drea stand. She went to the kitchen. What was she meant to be getting? Oh, right. She retrieved a pair of scissors and handed them to Cujo.
“You sure you can do this without severing an artery?” She stared at the blades between her trembling wrists.
“We’ll know in roughly thirty seconds.” His hands seemed steadier than hers as he cut through the plastic.
Blood rushed into her hands, and she shook them in a feeble attempt to encourage circulation. She took the scissors from Cujo. With a concerted effort, she was able to cut the plastic without injuring his wrists farther.
Quickly, she placed the scissors down on the counter and wrapped her arms around herself.
Cujo pulled out his phone and dialed.
“Don’t.” Drea grabbed his phone and hung up.
“Don’t what? I was just calling the police.” Confusion etched his features.
“I know … but do we need … I mean, should we? You heard what he said. And he knows all this stuff about me now.”
Gently, Cujo took his phone back from her. “I heard, Shortcake. But my guess is you defied him already, and the police are already looking for him, right? They aren’t going to stop. This might give them more answers.”
Cono. He was right. But the idea of forgetting she ever saw Snake gained root. “He didn’t tell us anything else. We didn’t learn anything new.”
“We did, Drea. He believes the woman he chased left something here.”
What to do? She had no clue. What if Snake followed through and hurt Milo?
If it just involved her, she could brush it under the table and move on. But the fact Snake knew details about her family freaked her out. There was no way she could look after them all.
While everything cried out to not call the police, Cujo was right. She could only look after her family with their help.
“Okay,” she said to Cujo and watched as he dialed. She stood, shaking, as she listened numbly to Cujo’s answers.
Within minutes, the police were on their way.
Cujo leaned against the counter and pulled her into his arms. They didn’t say another word until the flashing lights of the police car pulled up outside the store. Until then, Drea stood in Cujo’s arms, listening to the slow beat of his heart, allowing it to steady her own.
* * *
“Ms. Caron,” Detective Carter said, entering the café with another officer. “Two calls in three nights. You trying to get the full benefit from your taxes?”
Cujo closed the door then locked it.
Drea was busy brewing a pot of coffee. The smell made his mouth water.
Gotta give the girl credit; as soon as the squad car pulled up, she was pulling out of his arms and putting those walls back up.
His Shortcake was keeping it together. Sure, he knew it was a mask.
He’d felt her shaking in his arms, seen the sparkling sheen of tears before she’d wiped them away.
It was admirable under the circumstances.
Adrenaline flowed through him, it’s sharpened barbs tearing at his veins. What he wouldn’t give for just two minutes with the asshole. He’d watched, waited for the guy to make a mistake. But he didn’t. So he never got his chance to pound the fucking guy into the vinyl floor tiles.
Shit. They’d been held up at fucking gunpoint. And Drea kept talking to the guy, trying to figure out what he wanted. Putting himself between her and the gun seemed liked the only way to keep her from bodily harm.
“Detective Carter,” the cop said holding out his hand. Cujo took it, and so what if he grasped it just a little harder than was customary? Frustration, a need for violence, and plain irritation at the way Carter checked out Drea’s ass, ate at him.
“Brody Matthews.”
“Good to meet you, Mr. Matthews.” His attention shifted to Drea, shaking her hand a little longer than Cujo would have liked. “Same guy, Drea?”
“Yes. I didn’t get the best look the last time he was here, but he had the same voice and build.” Her voice wavered. Cujo reached for her hand. Her fingers were chilled.
“Have we got security footage?” Carter waved his pen toward the small black domes in the ceiling.
“No, we don’t.” Drea shook her head. “The system didn’t come back on line after Thursday’s power outage. Did you get anything from the videos?”
“Videos?” Cujo felt like he was joining a movie halfway through. Didn’t she just say they weren’t working?
“From before the power was cut two nights ago. Detective Carter took the footage to one of their techs,” Drea clarified.
“So did they find anything?” Cujo echoed Drea’s question.