Authors: Erica Spindler
That wasn't quite true. NOPD officers had a code of conduct to live by, but what she was proposing was neither illegal nor would it dishonor her badge.
“I'll have a gun,” Stacy continued. “And a badge. He won't be able to resist paying another midnight visit. When he does, I take him down.”
“Spencer will have my hide,” Patti said.
Yvette's jaw dropped. “You're not actually considâ”
Stacy cut her off. “He'll get over it. What do you think?”
“I'm thinking I've got to be crazy, but it just might work.”
Monday, May 14, 2007
5:45 p.m.
S
tacy packed enough of her things to make her move-in look authentic. Making frequent trips back to the Riverbend house might arouse suspicion. The Artist could be watching Yvette's building. Hell, he could be one of her neighbors.
She, Patti and Yvette had planned it all out. Brandi would move in tonight. Stacy had instructed Yvette to make a big deal out of it. Tell everyone that she had been staying with a friend because she was so freaked out about what happened to Miss Alma and Samson.
Tell them that's the reason for a roommate. Introduce Brandi around. Make it look normal.
Yvette hadn't been happy, but they hadn't given her an option. This was the new deal. Period.
“Something you want to tell me, Killian?”
Spencer.
She looked over her shoulder at him.
Dual-purpose move. This would give them a little time and space. To sort it out. Decide what they wanted.
She forced a carefree smile. “Hi, hon.”
“You never call me that.”
She didn't. Damn.
“I have news.”
His gaze slid to the suitcases. “Apparently.”
“I've found a temporary place to live.”
“Good thing I came home when I did.”
“I wasn't going to leave without telling you.”
“Right.” He slipped his hands into his pockets. “That's the way it looks.”
“It's work-related. But it'll give us some breathing room. Test a separation.”
“Test a separation,” he repeated. “I think that's all bullshit.”
“So we agree to disagree. Lots of couples do.”
“What's the case?”
She hesitated. “I said work-related. Not necessarily an active case.”
“More bullshit, Stacy. What are you trying to hide?”
Trying not to rub salt in the wound.
“I'm not hiding anything. Brandi's back. She's moving in with Yvette.”
At his shocked expression, she tipped her hands palms up. “I think there's something there, Spencer.”
Quickly, before he could argue, she filled him in. She began with the crime lab calling, learning about the key, then how she had connected the dots and gone to Patti with her offer.
“Patti's tossing away her career and you're going to help? I can't believe this.”
“There's something there,” she said again. “And while I'm there, I can watch Patti's back.”
“I know what's there. A liar and a cheat. And a woman whose decisions are being motivated by grief. What's your excuse?”
“What are you most upset about? The fact I think we need a break? Or that I'm buying into Yvette's story?”
“This is ridiculous.”
“In your opinion.”
He left the room. She watched him go, then returned to her packing, half expecting to hear the front door slam and the Camaro roar to life.
She didn't, and let out a shaky breath. Well, that had gone well.
Not.
She wanted to stay with him. But she wanted him to
need
her to stay. If he had made one real plea, shown a hint of real emotion, she would have let him know that.
But he hadn't.
Which was symptomatic of their relationship.
She finished packing, then headed to the bathroom for her transformation. Fifteen minutes later, she went in search of Spencer. He sat on the front porch, drinking a beer.
She stepped outside. “Will you help me get my bags into the car?”
He laughed, the sound short and brutal. “Sure.”
He brought the suitcases out, loaded them into her Explorer, then shut the hatch.
“See you around, Killian.”
“Spencer, Iâ” She touched his arm. “I handled this badly. I'm sorry, Iâ”
He shook off her hand. “I have an answer to that question you asked me earlier. Truth is, I'm more upset about you helping Patti than you moving out.”
She took an involuntary step back, hurt to her core. Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked quickly against them. She would not allow him to see how deeply he had cut her.
“Right. I'm glad we're on the same page.” She went around to the driver's side and opened the door. “I'll make arrangements for the rest of my stuff.”
“No hurry. Whenever.”
“Great.” She climbed into the vehicle. “See you around.”
“Absolutely.”
She started the Explorer and drove off. When she reached the end of the block, she glanced in the rearview mirror. He stood in the street, watching her go, expression set. Feeling as if she had a thousand-pound weight sitting on her chest, she drove on.
Stacy made it to Patti's without incident, her cell phone tellingly silent. She had hoped he would think about what he had said, realize he hadn't meant it and call her back.
As it stood now, they were through.
She pulled into the drive and climbed out. Patti was waiting. She looked anxious.
“Everything all right?” Patti asked.
“Sure. Why wouldn't it be?”
The woman arched her eyebrows. “Name starts with an Sâfor stubborn.”
“It's over.” She held up a hand to ward off any argument from the other woman. “He was more upset about my involvement in this than with my leaving.”
“That sounds like wounded male pride to me. I'm sure he'llâ”
Stacy cut her off. “It's time for us to move on. And it's been coming for a while.” She shifted the conversation to Yvette. “Is she ready?”
“Ready. But not happy.”
“Tough shit.”
“She's really young,” Patti said softly. “She hasn't had an easy life.”
“You actually
like
her?”
“I understand her.”
At the sound of a door slamming, they turned. Yvette stalked into the foyer, lugging a suitcase.
She dropped it with a thud at Stacy's feet. “I'm not doing this again. I'm returning to my apartment and that's where I'm going to stay.”
Stacy rolled her eyes. Arrogance was unattractive enough when it was attached to true talent or brilliance. Attached to childishness, it was just plain irritating. When would Yvette realize this was as much to save her as to catch Sammy's killer?
“Play nice,” Patti said. “I'll see you at the Hustle tomorrow night.”
“Whatever.”
She strode to the SUV, leaving the suitcase for Stacy to bring. Stacy gritted her teeth.
If the Artist showed, maybe she should let him scare the crap out of the little witch.
After telling Patti goodbye, she headed to the Explorer, then climbed into the driver's seat.
“What about my suitcase?” Yvette said.
“Your arms aren't broken.”
The younger woman glared at her. Stacy smiled. “It's not my stuff, I don't care if we leave it behind.”
With a huff, Yvette threw open the door and went to retrieve her case. After she had stowed it in back, she climbed back in, steaming.
Stacy glanced at Yvette. “You just can't see that we're inconveniencing ourselves for you?”
“Whatever.” She slammed her car door. “NOPD must not pay much. This is a pretty crappy ride.”
“I have other priorities.”
“Like what?”
“Saving for the future, for one.” Yvette didn't respond and Stacy added, “You probably think that's pretty boring.”
“Actually, I don't.” She looked at her. “What does your boyfriend think about this?”
Stacy pulled away from the curb, heading back into the French Quarter. “My boyfriend?”
“Detective Malone. I know you live with him.”
“So?”
“So what does he think about you moving in with me?”
“He's not happy. Not that it's any of your business.”
“Be careful or he'll find someone who does make him happy.”
“Relationships aren't so black and white.”
She smiled snidely. “That's what girls like you tell themselves.”
“Really? And girls like you think a real relationship is a lap dance and a really good tip.”
“Screw you.”
They didn't speak again until they had entered her apartment building's courtyard. Then they made a lot of commotion, lugging Brandi's suitcases, giggling like girlfriends on a new adventure. Along the way, Yvette introduced “Brandi” to a half-dozen neighbors, repeating the roommate story with the ease of an accomplished actressâor liar.
Once inside the apartment, both dropped all pretense of friendliness. “I'll take your bedroom,” Stacy said.
“I don't think so. That's my bed and I'm sleeping in it.”
“If your Artist pal decides to visit tonight, he'll creep into your bedroom. Not the guest room. Which sort of defeats the purpose of my being here, now, doesn't it?”
“Well, I'm not changing the sheets,” Yvette snapped, dragging her bag to the second bedroom. “You want clean sheets, you do it yourself.”
Stacy had wanted them. After making up the bed and partially unpacking, she met Yvette in the kitchen. They decided on Chinese takeout for dinner. After it was delivered, they ate it with chopsticks in front of the TV, then both turned in for the nightâall without exchanging anything but the most basic niceties. “Pass the rice” and “Could you turn up the volume” had been the conversational highlights of the evening.
Yvette's bed was comfortable, the apartment quiet. Still, Stacy couldn't sleep. She tossed and turned, thoughts racing. She longed to call Spencer. Just to hear his voice. In the hopes that he longed to hear hers, too.
From the front of the apartment came the sound of a door opening. A telltale click, a gentle whoosh.
Stacy retrieved her Glock and cleared the bed without making a sound. Weapon out, she inched her way down the hall. She checked Yvette's room first.
Her bed was empty.
Firming her grip on the Glock, she started forward, pausing every couple of steps to listen.
Silence.
The kitchen was empty. But not the front room.
Yvette. Standing at the open door, smoking.
“What are you doing?”
The younger woman jumped, startled, then spun around. “You scared the shit out of me!”
Stacy lowered her weapon. “Nice mouth.”
“Fuck off. Better?”
“I suggest you close the door. That isn't safe.”
“I wanted a smoke.”
“Then do it at a window.”
She scowled, bent and put the cigarette out in a large potted palm. “You're so bossy.”
“It's my job. It'll help keep you alive.”
She stepped inside, closed and locked the door.
“How'd you know I was up?”
“I heard you.” At her surprised expression, Stacy added, “Also part of my job.”
She decided not to share that she'd been unable to sleep. Let the woman think she had a super-spidey sense of hearing.
“Mind if I get a glass of milk?”
“Help yourself. But give it the sniff test first.”
“Thanks.” Stacy headed to the kitchen; Yvette followed. She laid her weapon on the counter, opened the refrigerator and took out the carton.
After checking the date, she sniffed. Confident it hadn't soured, she poured herself a cup, then warmed it in the microwave.
“You don't put anything in it?”
She shook her head. “My mother used to give me warm milk whenâ”
“When what?”
When she couldn't sleep. When she couldn't get the sound of Jane's screams out of her head.
“At night sometimes. Heating the milk brings out the natural sugar in it, so it tastes sweet. You should try it.”
Yvette poured a cup, heated it and sipped. She made a face. “It's okay. Needs some Hershey's. Or whiskey.”
Stacy laughed. “That's one way to get to sleep.”
“Why couldn't you sleep sometimes? When you were a kid?”
“My sister Jane was in a really horrible accident and almost died. She was with me. I was older, I felt responsible.”
Yvette took another sip. “What kind of an accident?”