Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 154735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
“C’mon, honey.” He lifted the tape. “I’ll take ya in.”
“Oh, thank you.”
Ducking down, Devina was sure to give Jer a batted eye while she breached the barrier that was flimsy in substance, ironclad in boundary. On the far side, she followed the older cop, content to model walk in his wake over to one of the side doors that was still intact.
Whoever had broken into the store had had a chip on their shoulder. They’d smashed the revolving glass entry both coming and going, shards on the ground outside on the left and shards on the inside of the store on the right.
It had to have been Lash, she thought. Assuming the reports about what had been taken were accurate.
And clearly, he was stealing instead of conjuring to conserve energy after his first induction.
“Lot of these new guys,” the cop said as they walked into a cathedral of merchandise and equipment, “just gotta—what do they call it? Flex? Jesus Christ, what a waste of time.”
“I’m really grateful.” She smiled at the officer. “You’re my hero.”
He didn’t seem affected one way or another by her charm, and she respected that: “Just tryin’ to help you get your phone. Let’s get to the back of the house.”
Once again falling in behind him, she looked around. In this part of the store, everything was orderly and non-ransacked, the exercise apparel hanging, slim and colorful, on round racks, the hints of what could be found deeper into the Dick’s showing on the fringes: camping and sports equipment, a canoe hanging from the rafters, stand-up displays of dehydrated food that could last for years.
“So what happened here,” she asked as she surged ahead so they were side by side. “Do you know who did this?”
“Can’t comment on an ongoing investigation. Sorry.”
The officer didn’t sound sorry. So she didn’t feel apologetic as she barged into his mind—oh, who was she kidding, she wouldn’t have cared anyway…
Okay, talk about your backfires. When she accessed the part of his memories that had to do with the investigation, what she was shown was like scratching a poison ivy rash. You thought it was a good idea, but in the end, you did yourself more harm than good.
The cops had security footage of a tall, powerfully built—NAKED—blond man, with an equally naked, but not at all powerfully built, guy, pulling up to the front of the store at just after midnight, in a navy blue Toyota Camry that had a front bumper that was falling off and sparks flashing behind one of its blown-out tires. The pair had disembarked and walked over to the entrance, and the blond man had broken the glass on the right side of the revolving door just by putting up his palm.
The cops were real confused about that part. As well as the way the alarm had instantly been silenced as the pair had progressed into and through the store. After that, things had gotten much more conventional, at least as stealing went. The two “men” had clothed themselves in the hunting department, taken some duffle bags—and then made like shit was for free in the section where guns were sold.
The older cop had watched the security feed himself, so she took a moment, while he was standing there, frozen and staring up at her like his brains had funneled out his doughy ass, to replay the black-and-white video a couple of times. The sight of Lash moving around with that powerful body of his, even distilled as it was through the recollection of the cop, was enough to make her—
“Why you cryin’, hon?”
As the words registered, she shook her head and said roughly, “I’m sorry, what?”
The cop motioned around her face. “You’re cryin’. ”
Devina brushed her cheeks. “I’m not.”
“Here.” The guy leaned to the side and took out a cloth handkerchief that was starched and folded into a precise white square. “Can’t have a pretty face doin’ like that.”
She took what he held out, and as she stared at the thing on her palm, she imagined that his wife probably ironed them for him with curlers in her hair, a little TV on the counter in the laundry room keeping her company, a soap opera burbling like visual soup in the background.
Devina sniffled and blotted under her eyes carefully. “How long have you been married? ’Cuz I know you didn’t iron this yourself.”
“We made it thirty-six years. She died this past February, on the seventh.” He nodded at the handkerchief. “Don’t have many of those left that she washed and tended for me. I think that’s the last one, actually.”
The words were spoken in the same laconic tone as the man had told good ol’ Jer to pipe-down-sonny. But behind the syllables? There was a loss so deep that the guy was hollowed out on the inside.