Divorced, Desperate and Dead (Divorced and Desperate Book 5) (7 page)

Cary frowned. “I didn’t say we . . .” He passed a hand over his face and stared at the door. He hadn’t tried walking out. Could he? All the sudden the answer just seemed to be there. There was no leaving until the bell rang. He glanced at Beatrice. She’d gone back to reading.

After a few minutes, he asked, “Exactly what do you mean by ‘connected?’”

She lowered the book and studied him. “You’re a cop, you figure it out.”

He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Then it occurred to him. “Wait. How do you know I’m a cop?”

“How? Maybe I’m more than just a smart ol’ lady. What are you, other than a coward?”

“You think I’m a coward?” he asked, completely confused, suddenly questioning his earlier judgment of her being the sharpest senior citizen here. She was as bat-shit crazy as the rest of them. A coward? He wasn’t a coward!

“You’re scared,” she accused. “Now, right now. You’re scared.”

“I’m uneasy, yes. For all I know, I’m gonna die, but I wouldn’t call myself a coward.”

“I didn’t mean about dying, you numb nuts. About living. Dying is easy. Living is hard. You’re scared about meeting Chloe.”

“I live. I did anyway.” Cary decided to forget the mention of Chloe.

“You call what you did living? I’m getting more real emotion off this fictional book than I’ve gotten off of peeking into your last four flings.”

His mouth dropped open. “Peeking in on my flings? How could you. . .”
Four? That had been how many women he’d been with in the last two years.
Oh, hell, nothing was impossible up here. He frowned at her.

“You say the same thing to all of them. ‘Oh, baby, you do it for me.’ I admit you went out of your way to make sure they enjoyed it physically. You’ve got the tools to get the job done. But emotionally you’re a cold fish and a terrible lover.”

“I . . . I . . . What are you, some kind of supernatural voyeur?”

“No, it’s my job.”

“Your job?”

She leaned in and quietly whispered, “I’m an angel of love.”

“You’re Cupid.” He laughed. “Cupid reads romance novels?”

She frowned. “Hey, how else am I going to keep up with how things are done? And frankly, young man, you should try to read one, you might learn a thing or two about real emotion.”

“This is nuts.”

“And . . .” Beatrice added, “I didn’t say I was Cupid. I said I was an angel of love. I don’t like being compared to a half-naked cherub. That guy gave us all a bad name. He’s crazy. Shooting people with that bow and arrow is insane.”

“You are insane,” Cary said.

“And you’re still a coward.” She stuck her nose back in the book. He sat there thinking about his pass to see Chloe, and wondering if he’d messed up by not doing something he should have.

“Hey?” he said, and gently pushed her book down a few inches to see her eyes.

She glared at him over the spine of the book. “I’m in a good scene, if you don’t mind. With real emotion, not the fake crap you dish out. Seriously, you didn’t enjoy that last girl.”

He let out a deep huff of frustration. “Look, I’m sorry I offended you, but I have a few questions.”

She didn’t agree to answer his inquiries, but she didn’t move her book up either and her gray eyes stayed locked with his. As crazy as it seemed, he spotted intelligence in her eyes.

“This pass thing, how was I supposed to have used it?”

She hit him in the head with her book. “Aren’t you a cop? Didn’t they train you at all? Where did you get your license? At the bottom of a Cracker Jacks box?”

“We don’t get . . .” She hit him again. He rubbed his head and halfway considered arresting her for assaulting an officer. But frankly he didn’t know if his badge was good up here. Up here? Had he accepted he was really . . . “What am I missing?”

She frowned. “Weren’t you shown how Chloe almost met her maker?”

He nodded. “Yeah, but . . .”

“Did you notice anything? Besides the size of her breasts?”

His mind went to her breasts. Then he remembered that the truck that had hit Chloe had looked like the same truck driven by the person who shot him. Had it been? Had it been the same person? What did that mean?

Shit. Beatrice was right, he’d stopped thinking like cop. He needed to figure out who had shot him and if it was the same person who ran over Chloe.

And she was back. Back there. Could she be . . . in danger? “Okay, I get what you’re saying, but to do my job you need to send me back.”

She rolled her eyes. “Do-overs. Why is it that you humans always ask for do-overs?” She looked up at the ceiling. “And you! You promised me that this was going to be an easy one!”

• • •

“Chloe?” The voice stirred her from the deep sleep, but it didn’t wake her up.

“Hmm?” She rolled over and let herself sink into her pillow. The Egyptian cotton felt cool on her cheek.

“I need to talk to you.”

The little alarm bell seemed to chirp. It was him again—Johnny Depp/Cary Stevens. Her imaginary boyfriend. Lifting her lids, she saw him stretched out beside her.

He’d kissed her. She remembered what his lips tasted like.

“You aren’t real.” She bit down on her bottom lip.

“Just listen, okay?”

She didn’t answer.

“You were hit by a black Chevy truck, and I was shot by a guy driving a black Chevy truck. I think it’s the same guy. I’m worried that—”

“Why do I keep dreaming about you?”

“You need to listen. You could be in danger.”

She blinked. “There’re a lot of black Chevy trucks.”

“Not that many without front license plates. And the truck that hit you didn’t have one, did it?”

She let herself remember. Saw it barreling towards her. Her heart leapt. “No,” she said a little breathless.

“What happened when you came back here? Have you seen—”

“Here, my apartment?” she asked.

“No, when you left Room Six. Did you just show up here?”

“No, I was in the middle of the street on a stretcher. A paramedic was over me.”

“Were the cops called out? Do the cops know about this?”

“Yes. They came to the hospital and questioned me.”

“Did you tell them about the missing license plate?”

She sat up. “No, I didn’t remember that until you mentioned it. I told them about the black, possibly Chevy truck, and that I saw the driver.”

He sat up, too. “You saw the driver?”

“Yes, I’m supposed to go down to the station tomorrow.” She glanced at her clock on the bedside table. It was almost six. “Today.”

“What station? What county did your accident happen in?”

“Hoke’s Bluff.”

“Damn.”

“What?” she asked.

“I was in Glencoe. So they might not be looking at your case and mine as linked.” He stood up and paced at the foot of her bed while he threaded his fingers behind his neck and squeezed. The he stopped and faced her. “Look, Beatrice is saying shit that makes me believe that you might be in danger. Are you sure what happened to you was an accident?”

“Yes, he wasn’t even looking up when he hit me. I think he was texting or something.”

“How good of a look did you get? Could you describe him?”

She nodded. “That’s why I’m going to the police station. They’re going to have someone do a sketch.”

“What did he look like?” he asked.

“He was blond, fair skin, too fair. Like . . .”

“Albino?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Shit. I think I know who it is. A kid. J.D. Andrews. I think it’s Andrews.”

“Who?”

“He’s a kid mixed up with the Black Bloods gang. A couple of months ago we arrested him and questioned him about selling drugs.” Cary did another two laps at the end of her bed. “Damn it, I need to get in touch with Danny.”

“Danny?” she asked.

“My partner.”

A bell rang. He looked up and then back at her. “That’s not for me. It’s your door bell.”

• • •

Chloe woke up. A ringing filled her head. She looked around the room to make sure she was alone. Of course she was alone. She grabbed her pillow and hugged it and her heart commenced to pounding a little faster.

The ring started again. He was right. It was her doorbell. No,
he
wasn’t right. There was no ‘he.’ He didn’t exist. He wasn’t real.

He was just . . . her imaginary boyfriend.

Cary Stevens was a figment of her imagination.

Someone pressed her doorbell again and then again. Still feeling groggy, she looked at her clock. Six a.m. Who would be at her door at this time?

She popped out of bed and went into her living room. A loud knock sounded at the door. Cupcake ran out of the kitchen and darted into the bedroom. She almost wanted to join her. Her gut said whoever was poking at her doorbell could not be bringing good news. Good news only arrived after eight.

“Who is it?” she asked, moving a little closer to the door and hugging her pillow tighter.

Chapter Seven

“Police. Open the door. We need to talk to you.” Chloe didn’t unhook the chain, but she opened the door and peered through the crack.

Two men dressed in jeans and unbuttoned shirts with T-shirts underneath stood on her apartment’s porch. One of them, a blonde, held out a badge. It looked real, so she opened it.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“It’s about the accident that occurred yesterday.”

She nodded, and suddenly realized they were staring at her a little odd. Probably because she stood there in her nightshirt, hugging a pillow as if it was her only friend. “I’m sorry, I was asleep.”

“We’re sorry for waking you,” the dark-haired man said. “I’m Detective Calder and this is Detective Henderson. We think your accident could be related to another case.”

Henderson?
The second name bounced around her head, hitting a lot of familiar brain cells. Brain cells that didn’t function very well until after coffee.

She noted his blond hair and blue eyes and she heard Sheri’s voice.
Dan Henderson.
He’s the hot detective. Blond, good-looking.

“Dan Henderson?” she asked.

“Yes,” the blonde answered, looking at her as if he was trying to place her.

“Is this a joke?” she asked. It would be just like Sheri to have him drop by.

“No,” both men said in a non-joking manner.

“Don’t you know Sheri Letterman?” Chloe asked.

“Sheri?” Dan stood there as if confused. “Yes, I know Sheri. She does some PR and the website for a friend of ours, Kathy Hunter. She owns a florist shop.” Suddenly, his eyes widened. “You’re Chloe, the friend that she was telling me about?”

“Yes,” she said.

“It’s really nice to meet you,” Dan said. “And I’d love to do dinner sometime, but that’s not why—”

“No,” she blurted out.

“Excuse me?” he said.

“I mean, I wasn’t saying I wanted to . . . Sheri was trying to . . . but I wasn’t . . . I just . . .” She closed her eyes, told herself to stop talking, and then opened them. “I’m sorry, I’m still half asleep.”

Both of the men looked at her as if she was a few fries short of a Happy Meal. And maybe she was. She had an imaginary boyfriend.

Well, maybe he wasn’t her boyfriend. Just an imaginary one-night stand. Oh, goodness, she really was still half asleep.

“And we’re sorry about that,” said the dark-haired guy, appearing impatient to get the conversation going in another direction. “Look, the reason we’re here is about the accident.”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m supposed to go down this morning and give a description to a Detective Harris. But . . .” She looked at the badge the dark-haired guy still held in his hand. “Didn’t that say Glencoe? This accident happened in Hoke’s Bluff.”

“Yes,” said the blonde. “But there was a shooting of a Glencoe officer that involved a black Chevy truck on Saturday evening, and we’re thinking it could be the same guy.”

I was in Glencoe. So they might not be looking at your case and mine as linked.

Chloe tried to wrap her head around what Dan Henderson said, but it was hard. It couldn’t be.

Impossible.

Completely improbable.

Farfetched.

“An officer was shot?” she asked, her voice sounding like an off-key instrument.

“Yes, my partner,” Detective Dan Henderson said.

Damn it, I need to get in touch with Danny.
Cary Stevens’ words from her dream played in her head. No, not really words. He was just a dream. So they weren’t really words. He hadn’t said them. He wasn’t real.

“Who . . . what’s his name?”

They looked at each other and then back at her as if she was about to sprout another head.

Please don’t say Cary Stevens. Please don’t say it.

“Detective Cary Stevens. Why?”

Chloe dropped her pillow. “Shit,” she muttered without wanting to.

“Excuse me?” Dan asked.

“No. Not shit. I mean . . .”
Oh, what did she mean?

“Are you okay?” the dark-haired detective asked.

She couldn’t tell them. They’d think she was nuttier than a five-pound box of peanut brittle. Hell, maybe she was.

“You sure,” Dan asked, studying her. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“No ghost.” Oh, God, at least she hoped not. “Is Cary . . . ? I mean the cop who got shot, is he . . . okay?”

“He’s in a coma,” the dark-haired detective answered, frowning.

“I’m sorry.” She saw Cary in her mind, grinning and looking way too confident and comfortable in her bed. She remembered his kiss, so soft, and the look of honest empathy in his eyes. She remembered he’d agreed to share the worst story award.

“Really sorry.” A knot of emotion filled her chest and made it hard to breathe.

• • •

Chloe called Amber, her assistant manager, and explained what had happened and asked her to open the bakery while she went to the police station to do the sketch. Since Chloe had already agreed to go to Hoke’s Bluff police department, the detectives agreed to just join her there.

She drove her own car, and for the entire four miles, she had a long conversation with herself. One in which she told herself over and over that she wasn’t crazy. That there was a perfectly good explanation for all of this.