“With chocolate frosting?”
“Lots of chocolate frosting.” I gave her a squeeze, and she smiled, just a little. “And for now, how about some mac and cheese?”
She nodded and climbed off my lap, running to grab a stool so she could help me make dinner. Within minutes, she was chatting away, telling me about the fun she had with her friends at school that day.
She was such a resilient kid, and she amazed and inspired me every day. She’d lost her mom as a baby and her dad at age six. If she could keep smiling after all she’d been through, I could get my life on track. I could find myself a steady job and succeed at adulting. Maybe I could even recall a detail of some sort that would help clear Mr. Nagy’s name.
I spent extra time with Livy that night after I tucked her into bed, making sure she was sound asleep before I tiptoed out of her room. Then I grabbed a notebook and pen, curled up in my own bed, and wrote down everything I could remember about the scene of Freddie’s murder. It wasn’t a whole lot. The smell of alcohol. The broken bottle. The blood. The buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead. The flecks of gold leaf.
Immersing myself in the memory became too much—I swore I could smell the blood and alcohol again. I slapped the notebookshut and tucked it away in the drawer of my bedside table. The exercise hadn’t resulted in any new insights, and I didn’t know how else I could help Mr. Nagy.
My gaze landed on the box of business cards I’d left on the floor by my closet. An image of Wyatt popped into my head, looking unfairly hot, his eyes doing that damn twinkling.
“Nope, nope, nope!” I told myself out loud.
I punctuated that statement by flicking off the bedside lamp.
As it turned out, thoughts of Wyatt—as dangerous as they were—would have been far preferable to the worries that plagued me all through the night. There was nothing I could do for my elderly neighbors, but knowing that didn’t help me sleep.
It didn’t take long to get the latest news the next morning. I heard it while checking my mailbox (empty except for flyers and other junk) down in the lobby. Mrs. Nagy was in the hospital, Carmen Álvarez reported as she collected the contents of her own mailbox. She’d collapsed from shock but was expected to return home soon. As for her husband, he was still in police custody.
I tried my best not to dwell on the Nagys’ predicament, but my heart ached for the neighbors who’d been so good to me and Livy since we’d moved into the Mirage. Perhaps a job offer would have helped to distract me, but none materialized. I hadn’t even been offered an interview.
Still, I was unwilling to accept defeat. That simply wasn’t an option. Not with Livy to take care of, so I returned to my apartment determined to accomplish at least one goal: fix the leak beneath the kitchen sink that had been dripping water into Livy’s blue plastic pail for the past couple of weeks.
A plumber I was not, but wasn’t everyone an expert with a little help from YouTube?
Chapter
Ten
Carrying a handful of flyers bound for the recycling bin, I took a detour to the basement laundry room, where I’d left my clothes swishing in the washing machine. There was only one laundry room for the entire building, with four washers and four dryers. That might have been a sufficient—or at least passable—number of machines, if all of them actually worked. At the moment, we had two functioning washers and one dryer that actually dried. Of course, that particular dryer was already in use and had nearly thirty minutes left on the timer.
I shifted my weight from foot to foot, trying to come to a decision as my basket of wet clothes sat at my feet. I could come back down and use the dryer later, or I could hang up my clothes to dry in the apartment.
The buzzing fluorescent lights flickered, nearly extinguishing completely before valiantly fighting their way back to life. Something creaked elsewhere in the basement and…was that a squeak? Like arodentsqueak? Decision made.
I grabbed my basket and hightailed it out of there. Air-drying was better for the planet anyway. And staying out of a horror movie was better for my life expectancy.
Once I’d set up my two rickety laundry racks in the kitchen andhad hung my clothes to dry, I turned my attention to my main goal of the day. I opened the cupboard under the kitchen sink and peered inside. The dripping water plunked into the nearly full bucket with a slow but steady beat.
Did I need a wrench? I wasn’t sure. Some of the rings on the pipes looked like they could be tightened with my bare hands, but there were other parts that looked a little trickier.
Fortunately, being an independent woman, I had my own toolbox, complete with basic tools. It was a gift from my dad when I moved into my first apartment after I graduated from college.
With a wrench in hand, I felt like I could conquer the world. One leaky pipe would be no problem. But before I had a chance to wriggle my way under the sink, someone knocked on the door. Jemma, as it turned out.
“Aren’t you working today?” I asked as I returned to the kitchen, still armed with my wrench.
“I start in an hour, but I wanted to come by here first.” She held up the burner phone. “I forgot to leave this with you.”
I sat down on the floor with my back to the sink and lowered myself onto my elbows. “I don’t suppose Hoffman called?”
I had low hopes for the success of our plan.
“Not Hoffman…”
I scooted backward until my head was in the cupboard, below the pipes.
