Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet

Even though I wasn’t much for carrying firearms—every time I carried a gun, images of it being wrestled away from me and used to end my life always flashed before my eyes—I headed back to my bedroom for Margaret. I figured, when facing a dirty, lying scoundrel like Reyes Farrow, one couldn’t be too careful. Or too armed. So I slid a belt through the loops of my jeans, holstered the Glock, then snapped the clasp closed.

After another deep breath, I headed out the door only to lose steam when I came to the stairs. The same stairs I’d taken a gazillion times before. They looked steeper somehow. More dangerous. My hands shook on the rail as I paused on each step, working up the courage to take the next, wondering what in the name of thunder was wrong with me. True, it’d been a while since I’d ventured out, but surely the world hadn’t changed that much.

When I finally made it down two flights of stairs to the first floor, I studied the steel entrance door to the complex. It sat ajar, not quite closed, and daylight streamed in around the edges. I forced one foot in front of the other, my breaths shallow, my palms slick with a nervous energy. I reached a quaking hand for the vertical handle and pushed. Daylight rushed in, flooding the area and blinding me. My breath caught and I pulled the door shut. Leaning against the handle for support, I took in long gulps of air, and tried to calm myself.

One minute. I just needed a minute to gather my wits. They were always running amok, wreaking havoc.

“Ms. Davidson?”

Without thought, I drew the gun from my holster and aimed toward the voice coming from the shadowy entranceway.

A woman gasped and jumped back, her eyes wide, gaping at the barrel pointed at her face. “I—I’m so sorry. I thought—”

“Who are you?” I asked, holding the gun so much steadier than I thought possible, considering the irrational state of my insides.

“Harper.” She held her hands up in surrender. “My name is Harper Lo—”

“What do you want?” I had no idea why I was still holding the gun on her. Normally, nice women with no hidden agenda whatsoever didn’t scare me. It was weird.

“I’m looking for Charley Davidson.”

I lowered the gun but didn’t holster it. Not just yet. She could turn out to be psychotic. Or a door-to-door salesperson. “I’m Charley. What do you want?” I cringed at the sharpness of my own voice. Why was I behaving so badly? I’d eaten a good breakfast.

“I—I’d like to hire you. I think someone is trying to kill me.”

I narrowed my eyes, took in her appearance. Long dark hair. Tall and curvy, full figured in a very pretty way. Soft features. Neat clothes. She had a baby blue scarf tied loosely at her neck, the ends tucked into her dark blue coat. Her eyes were large, warm, and captivating. All in all, she didn’t look crazy. Then again, neither did most crazy people.

“You’re looking for a PI?” A girl could hope. I hadn’t had a job in two months. Apparently. I glanced up toward Cookie’s apartment.

“Yes. An investigator.”

I took a deep breath and holstered Margaret. “I’m kind of in between offices at the moment. We can talk in my apartment, if that’s okay.”

She nodded briskly, fear evident in every move she made. Poor thing. She clearly didn’t deserve my surly side.

With head hung in shame, I started back upstairs. They were much easier to climb than to descend. That wasn’t usually the case. Especially after a two-month veg-a-thon. My muscles should have atrophied by now. “Can I get you anything?” I asked when we reached my apartment. I was only slightly out of breath.

“Oh, no, thank you. I’m fine.” She was eyeing me warily. Not that I could blame her. My people skills needed a good honing. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine. The wheezing will go away in a minute. It’s been a while since I took those stairs.”

“Oh, does this building have an elevator?”

“Um, no. You know, I’m not sure it’s wise to go into someone’s apartment who just pulled a gun on you.”

She’d been busy perusing the mess that was my office-slash-apartment-slash-ballroom-area-when-the-dancing-bug-hit. She dropped her gaze in embarrassment at my words. “I guess I’m a little desperate.”

I offered her the chair and I took the couch. Thankfully, Aunt Lillian still wasn’t back from Africa. After picking up a notepad and pen, I asked, “So, what’s going on?”

She swallowed hard and said, “I’ve been having strange things happen to me. Bizarre things.”

“Like?”

“Someone has been breaking into my house and leaving … things.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Well, for one, I found a dead rabbit on my bed this morning.”

“Oh.” Taken aback, I crinkled my nose in disgust. “That’s not good. But I’m not sure—I mean, maybe it was suicidal.”

She rushed in to stop me. “You don’t understand. A lot of things like that have been happening. Rabbits with their throats cut. Brakes with their lines cut.”

“Wait, brakes? As in car brakes?”

“Yes. Yes.” She was starting to panic. “The brakes on my car. They just stopped working. How do brakes just stop working?” She was scared. It broke my heart. Her hands shook and her eyes filled with tears. “And then my dog.” She buried her face in her hands and let the emotions she’d been holding at bay rush forth. “She disappeared.”