“Closet space might disappoint.” I leaned against the arched doorway to the bedroom, tracking her micro-expressions. “But the mattress…”
Her breath hitched.
“…is memory foam. Doesn’t sag.”
The bed frame’s iron scrollwork threw barred shadows across her face. She blinked rapidly, throat working around unspokenwords. Most women would comment on the quilt—hand-stitched by the Widow Granger last Christmas. They’d sigh over the farmhouse sink or coo at the subway tile.
Julia strode to the east-facing window instead, palms flattening against the sill. “Screen’s removable?”
“Twist latch at the top. Why?”
She didn’t answer, but her spine straightened as she counted the steps from bed to back exit. Twelve paces. Solid footing. No rugs to trip on.
Smart girl.
I moved to the kitchenette, deliberately turning my back. Glass clinked as I filled two mason jars from the tap. “Water pressure’s better than the Hilton. Showerhead’s got six settings—including ‘hurricane’ and ‘monsoon.’”
When I turned, she stood frozen between the sofa and coffee table, shoulders hunched like a spooked mustang. The fading light caught the uneven dye job—jet black at the roots, bleeding to blueberry near the ends. Chemical burn marks along her hairline told of bathroom sink disasters and hurried cover-ups.
“Keys.” I tossed the ring. She snatched them mid-air, reflexes honed by necessity rather than sport. “Silver one’s for the deadbolt. Gold does the handle. The key fob will arm the alarm system.”
Her eyes went wide. “Alarm system?”
“You are safe here, Julia. The alarm system is just an added element to be sure you feel as safe as possible.” Truth wrapped in practicality. Let her think me a stickler about her feelings. But something tells me she might be running from something or someone. This is the quickest way for us to be notified if a bad guy has breached her residence. I explained the very simple instructions for arming and disarming the system and the importance of her always having it armed whenever she’s at home.
She drifted toward the bookshelves flanking the fireplace—empty except for my sister’s hideous porcelain spaniel collection. I should’ve cleared them out.
“Storage ottoman doubles as a safe.” I nudged the tufted leather cube with my boot. “Combination’s your birthday.”
Her head whipped around. “How did you—”
“Your application. It included little vitals like that. This job may pay on a cash basis, but I needed to know a few things about the person I was opening up my books to. Like if you were old enough to be a CPA.” I gave her a wink. “Seems you are.”
The pink flush creeping up her neck said she didn’t believe me. Good. Let her wonder what else I knew.
I checked my Rolex—18:47. Church convened in twenty-three minutes. “Groceries get delivered Tuesdays. Cash envelope under the fruit bowl.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Yes.” The word came out sharper than intended. I softened it with a shrug. “Corporate account. Tax thing.”
She opened her mouth, no doubt to argue, when the wind shifted. Through the screen door came the distant howl of the 6:15 freight train—two long, one short, echoing across the plains. Julia’s pupils dilated. Her pulse jumped in that delicate throat.
Wolf instinct. Had to be.
“Schedules posted on the fridge.” I moved toward the door, leather cut flapping against my chest. “My number’s there too. In red.”
She hovered near the breakfast bar, arms crossed protectively. “What if I need something after hours?”
The challenge hung between us—a gauntlet thrown in honeyed tones. I let my gaze drop to her chipped nail polish, the raw spot where she’d worried a hangnail into an open wound.
“Then you call.” I palmed the doorknob, brass biting into my scarred palm. “Day or night.”
The screen door slammed behind me like a gunshot report. Wind whipped dust devils across the driveway, carrying the metallic tang of approaching rain. Through the apartment’s warped glass, I watched Julia trace fingertips along the butcher-block counter—a moth testing forbidden heat. Her reflection fractured in the windowpanes as she took a coffee mug from the cabinet. Testing weight. Checking for defects.
“Prez?” JT’s voice crackled through my cut’s comms patch. “Church in ten.”
I thumbed the mic hidden under my collar. “En route.”
