Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (22 page)

Chapter 19

Squeezing into the copy room behind Aidan, I find a stack of copy paper boxes an20d sit.  He leans against the copier, so close I can feel the hea
t—
from him not the copie
r—
and gives me a spectacular front view of his body.  That one night stand I was dreaming of seconds earlier is looki
n
’ good from where
I’
m sitting, but an edgy sense of impending doom evaporates the drool from my salivating brain.  Somethin
g’
s really wrong here.  I can feel it.

At least
I’
m relieved Robin has
n’
t murdered anyone. 
I’
m also hopeful Stok
e’
s going to prison indefinitely.
 “
Wha
t’
s going on
?”
I ask.
 “
Wha
t’
s my friend Stoke done
?
”

Officer Barbie, Brick trudging along on her heels, pushes inside the copy room, joining us.  Claiming the prized turf beside Aidan, she leans against the copy machine and shoots him a syrupy gaze.  I admit
I’
m crappy when it comes to reading people, so I ca
n’
t tell if ther
e’
s anythin
g’
s going on between them, but I know one thing for sure:
I’
m the outsider in this
mé
nage a trois. 
I’
m the perp in this sweat down. 

Wha
t’
s with these two?
 

Gazing up from my perch on the copy paper boxes, and watching their coordinated exchange of glances, I feel like
I’
m watching the Blue Angels perform overhead.  The
y’
re a team alright, maybe the good-cop bad-cop crew.  The fact pings my radar, bucking me up for whateve
r’
s to come. 

“
Look,
I’
m a college student, so I have to work
,”
I say.
 “
Wha
t’
s going on with my friend
?
”

Brick coughs.  H
e’
s not waving his scalpel, not conducting the orchestra that plays continuously in his head.  His lack of scalpel waving is a clue.  I pick up on it. 
Uh-oh.  Has the turd
I’
ve been expecting arrived?  Is it being served up by these two cops?   

I quickly revisit my attraction to Aidan.  What have I been thinking?
I’
ve let my resistance slip every time my hormones wobbled.  Maybe sleeping with a co
p’
s not bad, seriously, but pressed tight in this room with Detective Aidan Hawks and freaki
n
’ knowing, just
knowing
I’
m about to take his gut kick, makes me wish for once
I’
d obeyed Berta Colb
y’
s rule: no LEOs.

I ca
n’
t take it any more, the not knowing.
 “
Look, what do you want
?
”

“I’
m really sorry, Alaina
,”
he says
,“
bu
t
—”

I tense.  Here it comes, the big old gut kick. 

“
Your frien
d’
s dead
.
”

“
Stoke is . . . dead
?”
I ask, sounding not half as sad as
I’
m wishing I did.

“
No, not Stoke. 
I’
m sorry, but i
t’
s your friend, Angie Miller
.
”

“
Angie
?
”
 
I propel my way up off the copy paper box and stand, but the room starts spinning.
 “
Noooo
!”
I yell, hearing the angst in my voice.
 “
Yo
u’
re lying.  Yo
u’
re lying.  You both came here to trick me.  Yo
u’
r
e
—”

I catch my breath.  I do
n’
t ordinarily lose my cool this way.
 “
What . . . what happened?  How
?”
I ask, fighting the pain swelling deep within me. 
How can this be?  How can Angie be dead?
 

“
Ho
w’
d she die
?”
I ask.  Thinking of her new boyfriend, a jerk calle
d“
Suds
,”
who drinks like a fish and drives like a maniac, I fear the worst.  Sh
e’
s been killed in a car accident.

“
It was
n’
t pretty
,”
Aidan says, sizing me up, probably wondering how much of the truth I can take.
 “
She was murdered.  Tortured while she was alive
,”
he continues, explaining about Angi
e’
s teeth being cut out
,“
and then brutalized after she was dead.  So you can see why I need your help
.
” 

Fighting numbness, I listen to him tell me the details, speaking kindly, considering the brutality of Angi
e’
s murder.

When another attack of dizziness makes my knees buckle, Aidan puts his arms around me and holds me up.  I know h
e’
s just trying to help me focus on the work h
e’
s come to do, but
I’
m grateful for his support.

“
You going to be okay
?”
he asks.
 “
Would you like more time before w
e—?
”

I force myself to stand.  Angi
e’
s dead, murdered.  I need to keep my wits.
 “
No,
I’
m . . . fine.  What can I do to help
?
”

Nudging Officer Barbie aside, he lays a photo across the copier lid.
 “
Alaina, please look carefully at the wound patterns.  Do they mean anything to you
?
” 

Grateful for Aida
n’
s arms still around me, I step close to the copier for a better look.

When I was a little girl and my mom fought with her boyfriends,
I’
d steel myself against my fright by saying a nursery rhyme.  I say it now, staring at photos of my frien
d’
s mangled body, and feel my trembling lips moving frantically. 

Hickory, dickory, dock, the mouse ran up the clock.  Clock stuck one, mouse ran down.   

Wham! 

I open my eyes.  My next glance at An
g’
s shoulder delivers another gut kick. 

“
Her wounds are like Meer
a’
s
!”
I say, stunned, recalling the work Brick and I did with Meer
a’
s photos.

“
Oh, my God
!
” 

Pulling from Aida
n’
s embrace, I make a hard right out the copy room door and then fly down the hall to the employee bathroom.  Running down the hallway, I imagine Officer Barbi
e’
s snarky remark when
I’
d left the copy room, not voiced but lingering between us in her gaze when
I’
d shoved past her. 

Wh
o’
s the amateur now?

* * *

I barely made it to the bathroom in time.  Staring into the ornate gold mirror above the sink, I run cold water and scrub my face free of two day
s
’ worth of garish stage makeup.  Nothin
g’
s left in my tummy, no Twizzler from my breakfast Stoke gave me, not even water. 
I’
ve dry heaved everything into the commode.  I do
n’
t recognize myself.  The girl staring back in the mirro
r’
s a freaki
n
’ zombie.  Sh
e’
s a completely dead freaki
n
’ zombie, and I do
n’
t know her. 

“
Oh, shit, Alaina
,”
I tell the wet angry face.
 “
What in hell was that you just saw in that photo?  What in
hell
was that
?
” 

Picturing the bite marks on An
g’
s shoulder, I kick the trash can and then punch the wall.

“
Tha
t’
s not
her
.  No
!
” 

I start sobbing again, fresh tears flooding my cheeks.  To think,
I’
d been pissed she did
n’
t show up to help me make my video for my Rockette
s
’ jump-the-line competition. 
I’
d never been serious about making that video.  It was just a silly dream of mine.  Wha
t’
s it mean now?

“
She was dead, Alain
a—
you
bitch
!  She was freaki
n
’ dead, and you were being selfish
.
” 

Ang,
I’
m sorry.
 

“I’
m sorry,
I’
m sorry!  God, Ang,
I’
m so freaki
n
’ sorry
.
”

Choking on my sobs, I suck cold water from the faucet, belch, suck some more. 

Then, slowly, I straighten.  Understanding dawns with cruel irony.  Now I know why h
e’
s here.  Detective Hawks did
n’
t come to arrest me.  Or Robin.  Or Stoke.  H
e’
s here to add An
g’
s photos to Bric
k’
s collection.  Soon, Bric
k’
s rubbery gunk will fill An
g’
s bite wounds.  I imagine Ang, her dance
r’
s supple body denied life by a murderer and laying prone on a slab in a morgue freezer.  Brick will make his awful impressions and molds.  The
y’
ll rest on display beside Meer
a’
s, until whoever killed both Meera and Ang is caught and their kille
r’
s bite can be matched with Bric
k’
s impressions. 

I shiver.  Bric
k’
s left the air-conditioning running all night.  I
t’
s colder than a morgue in this bathroom.  And then it hits me.  Will Brick ask me to help examine Angi
e’
s bite marks?  Her impressions?  I never imagined, looking over Meer
a’
s bite wounds, that this investigation would turn so personal.

The thought disgusts me.  Could I do it?  Look at An
g’
s body the way I looked at Meer
a’
s and objectively perform the forensic analysis required?  Goosebumps pop out on my neck.  I need it, the chill.  It clears my head.
 “
Yeah, sure, I can do it
,”
I tell the scowling face in the mirror.
 “
Hell yes, I can
.
”

Who did this to my friend?  Who fucking did this to my friend?

Detective Hawks thinks I know something, maybe something that will tell him who killed Ang.  Tha
t’
s why he showed me those pictures.  I think back to everyone Angie and I are friends with, but the only person who comes to mind is me.  And Stoke.  An
d
—

Robin. 

I stop. 
I’
m not going to allow myself to think what
I’
m thinking. 

I turn my focus on An
g’
s killer, an unknown faceless freak.  I
t’
s not my brother, not Robin.