“I guess we should clean it up?” Patrick’s voice shook.
Anita swallowed her dread. Her father, the great Dr. Goodman, would besoproud she was facing her blood phobia. “I’ll go get a bag and some gloves.”
“Let me do it.”
She sighed in relief, but it was short-lived. He hesitated at the entrance to the studio, then turned back to her. “Actually, did you take pictures yet?”
“Ew, of course not. I’m not going to take a picture of a poor dead bird.” Anita couldn’t stop staring at the thick rope ofblood and gristle where the bird’s head ought to be. No creature deserved that.
“It’s for John.” Patrick took out his phone and knelt beside the body. “He said he needed evidence.”
Evidence. Right. She should program her phone to remind herself to be smart. Except she still was not quite sure how to set reminders on her phone. “You think it’s related to the other stuff?”
“It’s too weird not to be related.” He finished snapping the photos and texted them with a loud whoosh. “Did you see anyone outside the studio this morning?” he asked, stowing the phone in his back pocket. Which meant she looked at his back pocket and what it covered, and oh seriously, she needed to pull herself together. She was not turned on by the death of an innocent. Patrick looked at her expectantly. “What about your security cameras?”
Riiiiiiiight.She shook her head and glanced up at the bare edges of the door frame. “I don’t have security cameras. It’s a dance studio in Lewis. If someone really wants to take my water dispenser, I say have at it.” She made a note to herself to do an internet search for how to install security cameras.
Patrick just shook his head. Great, now everyone was disappointed in her. “Look, I’ll clean this up. You do what you need to do.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s my studio, it’s my dead bird. I will clean it up.”
The corner of Patrick’s mouth twitched upward. “As you wish.”
Anita opened her mouth to retort, but instead Patrick’s phone sounded a too-loud ping. Even she knew how to turn the volume down on a phone. Well, she had put it on vibrate once two years ago and then never figured out how to turn it off. Same difference.
“It’s John,” Patrick said, staring at the text. He chortled once and held the screen up for Anita to see. “He wrote, ‘Gross, put it in a plastic bag, will swing by later.’” Patrick shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe this is a lead.”
“You watch too many detective shows.” She sipped at the coffee cup Patrick had left on the check-in desk, but it had gone cold and tasted more than a little bitter. A great start to the day. “Do you want a cup of coffee? I’m going to make a pot. They must have used a different blend at Amore this morning.”
“I can make it if you want to get the body.”
Ugh, right, the body. She was an independent woman. Responsibility sucked. “Great, thanks.”
She heard his footsteps in the apartment above her as she plodded around her studio collecting supplies. Plastic bag here, cleaning gloves there.If I move more slowly than I ever have before, the body will decompose naturally, right?
Shove it down. Repress. Lock the door and throw the key deep into the back of the freezer.
It did not hit her as she scraped the little carcass into the plastic bag. Nor when she pushed all the air out of the bag and pressed the seal closed.
It was only when she smelled the fresh coffee Patrick had prepared.
She ran inside the studio, her head buzzing too loudly to do anything else.Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
She curled up underneath the desk in her office, head buried in her hands. The room was too hot, too close. Seriously, could she just get in a deep breath? She wiped at her eyes with the backs of her hands, then pulled them away to gaze at the streaks of tears across her skin.
“Anita?”
She couldn’t look at him. Not now. Not like this.
A waft of warmth and pine and mint surrounded her, wrapping her up like a cozy cardigan. “Anita?” he repeated.
He placed one hand across her shoulders, but that was it. She could not hold it in any longer. She wrapped her arms around him, buried her head in the soft fleece of his jacket. She was going to die. No one could survive this, this aching need, this unending want, this loneliness.
But then he wrapped his own arms around her body, holding her close, tilting his nose to the top of her head, and the sobs eased.
He was so close, encompassing her but not stifling. No one had ever held her like this before. Maybe her mother, but no one else. Her blood heated, tingling.
She pulled back from him enough so she could push the heels of her hands against her eyes.
