Ash #2
But this is exactly where Emma Bridle stood to break into my house. If I’d been here in West Harbor instead of wasting so
much time searching for her in the city, I’d have found her a week ago.
This is not good. Not good at all. I don’t know how Frankie’s not feeling as claustrophobic as I am—the top of her head is
in just as much danger of scraping the bottom of the deck as mine.
All I know is that I have to get out.
So I duck back out into the sunshine and immediately feel much better.
The house doesn’t have a backyard—the wooded cliff plunging down toward the lake and the deck overlooking it is the backyard—so I stand close to the side of the house, near one of the outer pylons.
Fortunately there’s a pretty nice breeze
coming off the lake. It seems to be coming from a line of dark clouds building in the north, just over the treetops of Center
Island.
A storm is coming. A big one, from the looks of it, and I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Frankie follows me out from beneath
the deck and squints at the clouds.
“I have to go,” she announces. She looks cool and collected. Being under a dank, dark deck by the footprints of a missing
girl doesn’t bother her at all, probably because she doesn’t have to explain to her boss how she missed her, or even that
those footprints belong to a missing girl. “This has been very informative, but I think it’s going to rain, and—”
“Hang on a minute.”
Invite her inside. Invite her inside for a drink.
Then I remember there’s nothing to drink inside. A little thief in thousand-dollar sneakers stole it all. I had meant to stop
by the grocery store on my way up from the city, but I forgot. As usual.
And is it appropriate to ask your neighbor in for drinks after realizing the person who stole all your renters’ groceries
is the very same person you’re supposed to be finding? I don’t think so.
But I can’t help it. This might be my only opportunity to make a good impression on Francesca Giovanni. She’s already looking
at me questioningly, wondering why I asked her to wait. I need to come up with something. . . .
“I guess I owe Mrs. Baumgarten an apology.” I’m floundering. “And a refund.”
I don’t know why Francesca’s approval is so important to me.
All I know is that when I see the smile that spreads across her face is a genuine one, without snark, my heart gives a kick.
And it’s not only because she approves of what I said.
It’s because when she’s smiling, Francesca “Frankie” Giovanni isn’t only attractive.
She’s beautiful.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” she says. Her teeth are even and white, all except for her incisors, which are just the tiniest
bit crooked. No braces as a teen for Dr. Giovanni. I can’t imagine what kind of orthodontist would have had the guts to tell
her she needed them. “Mrs. Baumgarten will be so happy.”
“Yeah.” I don’t relish telling Guy any of this. But I relish the sudden warmth in Francesca’s eyes. “I hope you’ll forgive
me, too. I truly am sorry.”
“Don’t mention it. That’s what neighbors are for, right?”
She gives me another beautiful smile, then turns to go.
I can’t let this happen. “Wait!”
She turns back toward me, curious. “Yes?”
“What . . . what do you think I should do about that?” I nod toward the basement window.
I’m only asking to keep her from leaving so soon. I know what to do about it: find Emma before she breaks into the wrong house
and gets herself arrested . . . or worse.
But Francesca appears to seriously consider the question as the stormclouds over the lake give another growl. Those towering
clouds are rolling closer and closer to the bright sun, threatening to cover it at any moment.
“Well, first, I’d fix that.” Francesca points in the direction of the torn screen. “Then I guess I’d try to figure out who
did it.”
I nod. “So I can tell the police?”
“No.” She drops her sunglasses back down over her nose, which wrinkled with distaste at my suggestion of calling the cops. “So you can get them the help they need.”
This is not the reply I was expecting. “Really?”
“Really. Maybe we should try to find out why a group of young girls is stealing food before we saddle them with criminal records for it.”
“Right!” I wonder if she has any idea how cute she is. I know she’s too tall to toss over my shoulder, but I want to try it
anyway. “That’s a much better idea. How are we going to do that?”
“We aren’t.” She leans over and pats me dismissively on the very same shoulder I was thinking of throwing her over. “You are. Good luck, Mr. Merit.”
Then she turns and begins walking back to her own house, her spine ramrod straight and head held high, but that ass swinging
like a pendulum, and her sweet voice—the one she tries so hard to make sound authoritative—still sounding like a dove’s coo.
Damn.
“Uh.” I can’t help myself. I’m trotting after her. “I think I’m probably going to need your help with that. Not being from
around here, I don’t have the resources to—”
“Don’t sell yourself short.” She doesn’t break stride. “I can tell that you have plenty of resources.”
I’m not sure what she means by that, but I can tell she doesn’t mean it to be flattering. I decide to pretend otherwise, especially
since it did end up sounding flattering—every word she utters in that angelic voice sounds like a caress. “Yeah, but I was thinking maybe
we could pool our individual resources together, and then work on this problem—”
This stops her dead in her tracks. She turns to look me in the eye, only barely having to lift her chin to do so.
“What problem?” she asks. “I don’t have a problem. You do.”
“Well, it’s sort of everyone’s problem, isn’t it?” It’s hot out, and where we’re standing in her weed-strewn lawn, there’s
no shade. The sun is about to be blotted out by the rain clouds rolling in over the lake, but for now, it’s beating down on
both of us. I’m pretty sure that’s not the only reason I’m suddenly sweating, though. “I mean, if kids are breaking into rentals
in this neighborhood, then maybe that’s something we need to tackle together. I know I’ve already caused you a lot of hassle,
but if you’d just let me take you out for dinner tonight, maybe I could not only make it up to you, but we could figure out
a way to—”
She’s already turning back toward her house. “Sorry. I’m busy.”
I know she means to sound dismissive, but all she sounds is cute.
“Oh, sure,” I say, keeping up with her. “Tomorrow night, then?”
“Sorry. I have patients.”
“At night?”
“Yes, Mr. Merit.” She whips around to face me again. “And when I’m done with my appointments, I’m usually too mentally exhausted
to go out to dinner with someone who wants me to help them solve their problems . . . for free.”
Whoa. Yeah, she’s mad at me all right. Only, because she’s so pretty and her voice so melodic, her anger is like rain on a
hot summer day like this one—soothing and welcome.
“I could pay you,” I say. It’s the only thing I can think of. I want to keep her there. I want to keep listening to her silvery
voice. I want her to notice me—more than notice me.
She doesn’t even turn her head to look at me as she walks away.
“I’m not accepting new patients at this time,” she says as she climbs the steps to her front porch, that ass looking like a denim-clad valentine. Thunder rumbles again, more loudly this time, but Francesca ignores it. “Goodbye, Mr. Merit.”
I’m so enchanted by the honeyed way her lips form the syllables of my name—I swear it’s that, and not the way her ass looks
in those shorts—that I don’t even notice she’s opened her front door and is about to leave me all alone in what had once been
Dr. Dick’s tidily manicured, weed-free lawn.
All alone except for one other creature.
Because the second Frankie Giovanni opens her front door to go inside, a tiny black-and-white cat slinks out from beneath
the steps to her front porch, trots over to me, flops onto her side in the dirt at my feet, and begins affectionately rubbing
her head against my shoe.
I knew it. This cat is a complete asshole.