HackOffMyCock: ok
JessReilly19: bye
---CHAT ENDED: JessReilly19 has left
CHAPTER 37
Present
“MS. EVANS, I understand that you work for the department in Forensics, is that correct?”
“It is. I started three weeks ago.”
“Did you work the Jeremy Pacer scene?”
“Yes. I was called to the scene when the body was discovered. My notes are in the file.”
“But you also know Jeremy Pacer?”
“Yes. We met about the time I started with the department.”
“And you’ve also met Deanna Madden?”
“Yes. The same day I met Jeremy.”
“And what was your impression of Deanna?”
“Hostile. Unfriendly. She and Jeremy seemed to have… a very strange relationship.”
“Please elaborate.”
“A lot of fighting. Mostly her screaming, him trying to calm her. She seemed to fly off the handle over every little thing. And it seemed to be the norm. I mean, he wasn’t surprised by it, best I could tell.”
“And what was your impression of Jeremy Pacer?”
“A nice guy. Kind of the strong silent type. I’m pretty surprised…”
“Surprised by what?”
“Well… that she could do that much damage to him. She’s so tiny. He… there was just so much blood.”
“But you do think she’s guilty?”
“Oh, absolutely. I’d bet my life on it. There’s… well, you’ve met her. Almost an evil about her.”
CHAPTER 38
Present
MY APARTMENT’S FLOORS are concrete, painted over thirty-some years ago with white latex paint. In some places, the paint peels. In others, it’s worn through, a dirty tan shade beneath. I kneel on the floor and scrub, a green Scotch-Brite pad in each yellow-gloved hand, protection that extends up to my elbows. The concrete is hard, my knees damp against my jeans, and I work my way from one side of the apartment to the other.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
I stop every three or four feet to pour down more bleach and to wipe up behind me.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
I open the window and stick my head out. Sunday night’s rip of cardboard making today’s to-do list one step shorter. Inhale to clear my lungs. Look down a hundred feet, at the crumpled mess of dirt, grass, and trash, and get dizzy. Pull in a breath and my head, walk back, and get back on my knees. If I wasn’t hiding evidence, I’d turn on my webcam and do this naked. Get a few thousand bucks richer in the six hours this is taking.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
And this is only step one. Step two will involve powder, then solution. Step three will involve another round of bleach. The floors, then the walls, then the windows. Somewhere in the corner of my mind, Lil Jon gets crunk.
“Move in with me.”
I looked up from the magazine, my elbows on the bed, belly flat, feet kicked up to the ceiling. “I can’t.” Not that I hadn’t thought about it. I had. Thought, envisioned, fantasized. It’d be great. We’d do laundry together, have impromptu sex, make late-night brownies, and pick out throw pillows. Then I’d kill him, and the fantasy would be over.
“Come on… it’s got two bedrooms. You could have a separate one if you wanted.”
“And leave all this?” I tossed a sloppy hand out, sweeping it around in a gesture that encompassed all of the grandeur of the Mulholland Oaks apartment building.
He laughed, putting a knee next to me on the bed and sitting down, his hand rolling me over onto my back, then lifting me up and toward him until my head rested in his lap. “Yes. Leave all this. The new house is gorgeous… but it’s lonely. It needs you.”
I made a face. “I saw the pics. The new house needs nothing. You’re a big boy. Fill it with masculinity and fishing pictures.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and stared down at me. “Please?”
I sighed, looking up and meeting his eyes. God, those eyes haunted me. They were golden retriever eyes, the kind that begged while putting all of their trust in you. “I can’t. You know that. I like it here. This… this is my safe place.”
“I want to be your safe place.”
“You’re not. You’re… you’re the door to everything that isn’t safe. And it’s okay. It’s what I love about you, but it’s also what scares me.”
“Just say it again.” His thumb was soft when it brushed across my mouth.
“I love you.”
He smiled. “Think about it.”
I smiled. “Okay.”
But I never would have moved. I knew that. He had to, deep inside, know it too.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
I got up and moved the table, dragging it over to my cam bedroom. Then I went back and got each of the chairs.
“I don’t need that.” I watched him carry in each of the chairs, my brows raised. I don’t have room for chairs. I know every foot of this place and use it all. Chairs and a table are something I’ll have to navigate around. I’ll trip. Bruise myself.
“Yes you do. Everyone needs a table.”
“I’ve done perfectly fine without one for three years. Haven’t missed one once. I could have ordered this myself, you know.” I was beginning to get irritated, especially as he carried in the large box, a toolbox balanced on top. “Is this going to take long? I’ve got appointments in an hour.”
“It’ll take twenty minutes, tops. Just stop bitching. If you hate them in a week, I’ll carry the set out.”
“And put it where?” I grumbled, flopping onto the floor and watching him. His eyes smiled when they looked at me, and I could hear the point his mind was making, but I liked sitting on the floor. Eating on the floor. This floor was the blueprint to my life.
I scooted back to the wall and leaned against it, watching him work. He moved with easy efficiency, ignoring the folded directions, his hands quick as he put pieces together and used a drill. When he bore down on the wood, his muscles clenched beneath the fabric of his uniform. When he concentrated, his forehead pinched, mouth firmed, eyes narrowed. It was surprisingly arousing, watching him work, some inner cavewoman instinct stirring in me. I see man. He works well. I want man. When he lifted the table up and flipped it over, the round piece settling on the floor evenly and without a wobble, I hoisted myself to my feet. Stood beside him and surveyed his work. “I guess you’re pretty proud of yourself, huh?”
He looked over, his eyes darkening as they dropped to my face, his hands falling from his hips. “Not yet.” He bent, his hands settling on my hips, and spun me up and onto the table, my knees opening, his body pushing in, his hands sliding to and gripping my ass, pulling me to the edge of the table. “But I’m about to be.”
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.