A Scrying Shame (28 page)

Ethically, I couldn’t even acknowledge that Carrie was a client. Stacked up against the stark reality of the buck knife, however, confidentiality seemed like a vague, misty concept. Problem was, I liked Carrie, and I refused to draw a map for her asshole boyfriend. And there was the added issue of not having a freakin’ clue where she might be.

“Where is she?” he repeated.

Drunk, dangerous, and impatient.
The unholy trinity.

What the hell was his name, anyway?
She must have said his name a half-million times, at least. She’d even divulged having it tattooed in the shape of a crescent moon on her left breast. Why should her boob tattoo flash into memory and not his name?

“Look, I know you’re upset. I want to help.” I worked to keep my voice calm, dropping it low and soft in direct contrast to his anger.

“Don’t you try that psych crap on me, you bitch! You’ve been trying to break me and Carrie up ever since she started seeing you.”

Well, not exactly, but I doubted what’s-his-name could distinguish the fine line between encouraging Carrie to make her own decisions and telling her to leave the jerk who kept throwing her against the wall whenever she disagreed with him.

“It’s not crap to tell you that the police are coming. You know that, right? You can make this so much better for yourself if you just give me the knife.” My eyes were glued to the weapon—it looked like something that could gut a deer with one flick of the wrist. My stomach rolled, the acids within sloshing loosely from side to side.

“Give
you
the knife? Why? So you can stab me in the back with it? You bitches are all alike. First chance you get, you kick a guy in the teeth.” The blade whispered evilly as he sliced it through the air. I hated that knife.

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” I said. Sweat rolled down my face, tickling.

“Bullshit! You’re taking Carrie away!” His face flooded with incredulity, and the next few seconds blurred as he charged forward. Flipping the desk chair aside like it was made of Styrofoam, he pinned me against the back wall, the knife a silver glint below my chin. Its tip nicked my skin, not cold as I had anticipated, but burning a slender line across the thin layer of flesh guarding my throat.

“You just don’t get it, do you? I love her. And you got no right coming between a man and his woman. That’s a sacred thing, and you can’t just—”

“I’m not taking Carrie away. She’s—”

“Liar!” Rage twisted his face into a grotesque mask, barely human. “You think I don’t know? You think I’m stupid because I don’t have a stinkin’ diploma stuck up on my wall?”

He smashed the knife into the glass frame above my head, shards splintering like frozen rain on my hair and the floor below. He’d just killed a cheap Monet print, but now didn’t seem like the time to point out the error.

“You think you’re so special, don’t you? Got your college education, and your tight little ass that you like to shake in front of all the men. Bet you make them crazy, huh? Make them come back for more, just ‘cause they got the hots for you. Do you wear that long, black hair up just so’s we wonder what you look like at night, when it’s down?

“And then you act all concerned about me, like you care. Just like
her
. I’m not stupid.” His voice dropped again to that frightening, raspy whisper. “I know what she’s planning. She’s been checking into those shelters like she thinks that’s gonna keep her safe. I bet you been workin’ on her, trying to get her to go to one of them places.”

The knife skimmed my throat again; I couldn’t even shake my head to answer without slicing it off. Tears of frustration pooled in my eyes, ready to fall. Carrie and I had talked about the possibilities of domestic abuse shelters, but that was weeks ago. At the time, she wouldn’t even take the brochure that I’d tried giving her, for fear that her boyfriend would find it.
Was her cancellation today part of an escape plan that she hadn’t trusted me with?

“Did you try her at work?” The question popped out of its own volition.

“Huh?”

“Well . . . she canceled her appointment. Maybe she just got called in to work.”

Stopped him cold. Suddenly, as we stood there in a grotesque parody of an embrace, the wail of police sirens filtered through the office’s strip-mall thin walls of the office. No soundproofing, another cheap aspect of our working arrangement, but I loved it now. His eyes locked on mine, briefly, and a disturbing emotion rippled between us. He stood there only a few moments more, but it felt like hours; his breath fanned my cheeks while his body held mine hostage. Rearing his head back, he spit full in my face, then bolted for the door. Turning right, away from the front lobby, he ran toward the back fire exit. I heard shouts, and a thunk as something heavy tipped over. Seconds later, several police officers flew past the office door in pursuit.

Now that the time for panic was officially over, it took possession of my body, unhinging my knees, crashing me down to the floor. I cowered there, heart pounding, adrenaline turning my mouth tinny, shaking so hard my joints ached.

The sound of more running feet jolted me to my knees, but it was just my supervisor Marshall sprinting down the hall. The back door slammed, and then Marshall was at my side.

He guided me into the chair. I watched disinterestedly as his mouth made noises over me. My brain tuned him out until a shout of astonishment from him pulled me back to focus. Marshall knelt beside my chair, holding my right hand. For a brief spasm of time, I imagined he was going to propose. That is until I saw the bright red blood pooled in the cup of my upturned palm, seeping over the side and into his beneath like a water fountain in a particularly grisly park. My first instinct was that I’d been stabbed, but then I spied the glass shard sticking straight up, cleaving the pad of skin between my thumb and forefinger. I couldn’t stand the sight of the alien object stuck inside me. So I pulled it out. More blood.

Marshall’s noises grew more agitated, but this time a wave of dizziness blocked him out. A uniformed policeman pushed into my tiny office, crowding us, using up more air. My ears started ringing, and the cop pushed my head between my knees. I closed my eyes, concentrating on not throwing up, while someone squeezed the cut on my hand real hard.

“Wayne,” I said to my knees.

Someone’s head orbited into my vision. “What?” the someone said.

“His name is Wayne.”

I’d like to thank Kindle Press and the Amazon Scout program for choosing
A Scrying Shame
for publication. And for all of those readers who took time to nominate
Shame
or to support my other books, you have my eternal gratitude!

To my friends and fellow authors: Marla, Madison (TJ Peacock & Lisa Rayburn Mysteries), David Tindell (
Quest for Honor
), Marjorie Doering (Ray Schiller series), Katie Mettner (Snowberry series), Helen Block, Darren Kirby (
Coordinates for Murder
). With every book I write, I become more and more indebted to each of you. There is simply no way I would have continued down this path without your support and encouragement. Your critiques keep me on my toes and our business meetings keep me motivated. You are all a blessing in my life, and I thank God for you all.

To Fiona Quinn, author of the Lynx thriller series and the writers’ resource blog ThrillWriting: Thank you for holding my hand and keeping my chin up during the Scout campaign. You were kind, generous with your time, and patient with my multitude of questions. I can’t thank you enough!

Finally, to Joe, Levi, and Leah. You are my world.