Chapter Sixteen
On autopilot, Drea woke to the sound of her alarm clock and started to run through the chores for her day off, tasks that were piled higher than the dishes at José’s. Getting a load of laundry in was first up. She’d strip the beds, starting with her mom’s because—
The grief hit her in a wave. Yesterday’s funeral.
A startling, consuming remembrance that her mom wasn’t here anymore.
She wasn’t in the makeshift bedroom on the first floor, bemoaning the noise levels of the decrepit oxygen tank.
She wasn’t in the kitchen complaining that they were running low on juice.
She wasn’t in front of the television, explaining why she needed access to another forty-seven cable channels.
There would be no gripes today. Only the solitary silence of an empty house. She was alone.
Drea curled into the fetal position under the comforter.
Without the urgency her mother provided, there was no real reason to get out of bed.
The thought scared her. It would be so easy to sleep late.
To stay in pajamas all day seemed indulgent.
Today she had the opportunity to remain ensconced in the warm comforter, yet it seemed depressingly bleak.
The bedding could wait. The fridge contained enough food to see her through the next few days. Hell, even her belief that dust exacerbated her mom’s condition no longer mattered.
She’d waited years for the day when she could have the luxury of choosing what to do for a whole twenty-four hours. Now that it was here, Drea had no clue what to do with it.
Sitting up, Drea decided upon breakfast. She wandered down the stairs, missing the silent hiss and fizz of the oxygen tank. The portable bed was pushed up against the wall, stripped of its bedding. Drea’s eyes prickled with tears. She brushed them aside.
The kitchen was spotless. She popped two slices of bread into the toaster and started to make coffee.
Decisions needed to be made on the house.
She prayed that they weren’t in a negative equity situation.
Perhaps she should give the real estate agent a call today.
Or continue the cleanup she’d started the day her mom died.
At some point, she needed to get rid of her mom’s things, but that seemed too final.
The toast popped up from the toaster and Drea grabbed it. Moments later, she sat down on the rickety breakfast bar stools. She stared at the half-empty jar of peanut butter sitting in its usual spot on the counter.
What had she liked to do? The last time she’d experienced any real spare time, she’d been fifteen. Eminem had been trying to lose himself, Justin Timberlake had been crying a river, and Drea had been beside herself over the end of Buffy The Vampire Slayer.
The truth hit her—she had no clue what she liked. When her mom first got sick, it had been less painful to simply stop thinking about all the things her friends were doing. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost sense of where her mom started and where Drea ended.
Drea finished eating, rinsed the dishes, and headed back upstairs. A shower and change of clothes did nothing to change her mood. It was ten minutes before nine. She wandered back down the stairs.
Grabbing a second cup of coffee, Drea tried to wrestle the fluctuating ideas in her head.
Racked with indecision, it was impossible to figure out where to start.
She took a seat on the sofa in the living room and flicked on the television.
A bubbly TV anchor was waffling on about some latest show on HBO that was meant to be the next big thing, but it meant nothing to her.
Her phone rang and she answered it. “Hello?”
“I’m Don Hexley. I’m looking for Andrea Caron.” His accent was hardcore Boston.
“I’m Andrea. What can I help you with?”
“I’m sorry, Andrea. I just became aware of a photograph you’ve been circulating. She’s a colleague of mine. Lynn Alexander.”
The phone slipped from Drea’s grasp and she caught it quickly, returning it to her ear. “You know her?” Lynn Alexander. Finally, the efforts were going to pay off. A tremendous sense of relief washed over her.
“Yeah. I was forwarded the picture you’d originally sent to somebody in Alberta. A Gilliam Gillespie? Can you tell me what you know?”
She wanted to, she really did. But what did she know about this guy? “Can you tell me a little bit more about Lynn first?”
“Lynn has reported to me for a number of years. You could say she is an investigative reporter of sorts. What she does is confidential. Why are you looking for her, and where is the photograph from?”
Drea considered her options. Hexley wasn’t giving her much to work with, but sharing the information that made up the television appeal seemed safe enough. It was public knowledge.
“I’m sorry, but the police believe she was chased and abducted from a café in Miami. I just wanted to figure out who she was.”
Don inhaled deeply. “Dear God, do you know what happened to her?”
Wasn’t that the million-dollar question? “I don’t, I’m sorry. Her case is being dealt with by a Detective Carter. Let me give you his number.” Drea scrolled through her phone and read the number to Don.
“I appreciate that,” said Don. “And you said Miami, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Thank you for helping us find Lynn. And now I must ask you for another small favor, Andrea.” He sounded almost fatherly.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Step away from this now. For whatever reason Lynn was in Miami, broadcasting her presence may drive those who have her to hurt her. Lynn works with very sensitive information, and there are more people than just Lynn at stake. For your own safety, leave this alone and let me handle it with Detective Carter.”
The phone went dead. Drea looked at the screen. She checked the call log and there was a number there, not the “private number” she’d been expecting.
At last they knew who the woman was. She had a name, and a history, and a job. All of these things could help Carter find her. Perhaps it was time to step away and let them take over. After all, all she had wanted to do was identify Lynn, and now she had.
She flopped back on the sofa. Stuck in a weird intersection between boredom and paralysis, she closed her eyes.
Her head hurt a little. Maybe a nap was in order to catch up from all the days and nights she’d experienced grabbing sleep between shifts.
It seemed indulgent and unnecessary, but Drea got comfortable and closed her eyes.
There was banging. In her dream. Loud, thunderous knocks accompanied by someone shouting her name.
“Come on, Shortcake, I’m getting soaked.”
Drea gasped and sat upright. The sun had dropped to a dwindling half-light. Rain pounded against the window.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The loud hammering continued. The door.
Drea leapt up and ran to open it. A very wet Cujo stood on the steps. So wet, his white T-shirt clung deliciously to his pecs and had turned opaque in places,
“Thank fuck for that, Shortcake. Thought I was going to get washed away down the street, fall down a storm drain, and meet one of those fucking weird Stephen King clowns.”
Relief washed through her that he was here, and she jumped into his arms, wrapping her legs tight around his waist and her arms around his neck. He gripped her butt and stepped inside.
“I missed you, too, Shortcake.”
* * *
“Not that I don’t love a sexy chick leaping into my arms and all that, but what’s going on?”
He closed the door, shutting out the dismal downpour.
Drea’s face was pale. Cujo walked them over to the sofa and sat down with her across his lap, her knees on either side of his thighs. She smiled at him, but her eyes showed an ocean of sadness.
“Nothing. I’m just glad you’re here.” Drea leaned in and kissed him.
He let her, enjoying the way her plump lips met his, the way her tongue slipped into his mouth driving him all kinds of crazy.
He’d opened the shop, and it had been a long tiring day, but when it came down to a toss-up of the gym or Drea, he’d wanted to get his cardio in a far more pleasurable way.
Until he’d seen the lost look in her eyes and felt the desperation in her actions.
Her hands slid into his hair, but he grabbed them, placing them between their chests.
“As distracting as your kisses are, I’m calling bullshit, Shortcake.”
Drea sighed and made a move to get off his lap, but he tightened his hands around her wrists gently.
“I’m okay. Seriously. It’s been an odd day. And I just woke up.”
Cujo pursed his lips. “Not buying it, kiddo. Talk to me.”
“Gah,” she huffed. “What do you want me to say? You want to hear why today sucked?” She finally met his gaze. “That it was strange being alone?”
“That’s exactly what I want you to say.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “Why was it strange?”
Drea sat back on his thighs, increasing the distance between them physically. With a huff, she tugged her hands from his. As much as he wanted to pull her back to him, he let her go through the internal struggle of accepting help.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she muttered, without looking up.
“Do about what?”
“My days off were filled with stuff for mom, or the house. Picking up prescriptions, doctor’s appointments, cleaning, and laundry. Working all day at José’s and all night at the hotel, there was no time to pick up the slack, it was the only time I could get things done.”
“And now you don’t have that anymore, you were a bit lost?” He couldn’t imagine what that must feel like.
He’d always had Connor, Devon, and his dad to back him up.
When he and Trent were starting Second Circle, Devon would bring him lunch.
When he was ill, his family had a schedule for who would take him for chemo.
When his mom and dad split, Trent’s parents invited him to stay weekends.
He’d never had to handle anything alone.