Page 17 of Her Only Hero

The heavens became darker by the second. I wanted to get home before the impending downpour but took a detour. Something compelled me to go back to the scene of the crime. Perhaps it was morbid curiosity. Or maybe an investigative inclination. But most likely wishful thinking. I parked directly in front of the house. They sealed off the entire perimeter of the property with yellow police tape.

All seemed motionless and quiet within the confined area. I touched the yellow plastic barrier and debated crawling under. Movement flashed to my left, and I spun around. A woman in a trench coat held a taut leash to her sniffing beagle.

“I wouldn’t go in there, dear,” she said. “There was a murder last week.”

“Really?” I hadn’t realized the crime had made the news. “Hi, I’m June. Do you live near here?”

“Mabel. And yes, I live around the corner. I have got to tell you; the neighborhood is mighty nervous after what happened. It’s always been such a safe area.”

“I can imagine,” I said, withholding details about my involvement. “Do you, by any chance, know who lives in this house and who was murdered? Has there been any previous disturbances?”

Her dog lurched. “I have no idea who was murdered. I’m guessing it was over drugs or something. It’s a rental, I do know that. People come and go, but without happenstance, unlike now.”

The house sat in a foreboding darkness.

The dog dragged the woman forward. “Well, be careful, June,” she called out behind her. “You never know who’s lurking where. Have a good evening.”

“You too,” I said. Instead of returning to my car, I walked along the length of the tape. It stopped at the dumpster. I could still envision Patrick racing down the alley after the suspect. Automatically, I turned and headed down the hedge-lined lane and used my phone’s torchlight. I scrutinized the dirt and gravel. I didn’t know why I was doing this, but maybe it would help jog my memory.

I’d traipsed about a hundred yards and stopped, glancing at the house’s unremarkable backyard. Birds flew over my head into a large tree. Or maybe they were bats. Lightning cracked in the black sky. The wind whistled, and the temperature noticeably dropped. I retraced my steps when suddenly a stone jumped into one of my pumps. Balancing on one foot, I took off my shoe and shook out the pebble. My phone somersaulted out of my hand and tumbled to the ground.

Damn.

The light flashed into the hedge, and I noticed a scrap of paper amongst the fallen leaves. I squatted and then dropped to my knees to fetch it. It was a business card. I shone the phone light onto it. The name on the card was Dr. Fulthorpe, Hematologist, St. Eugene’s Hospital.

My heart hammered. I turned the card over, and in black ink an address was written—109 Landry Road. This address.

How did this card get here, and whose was it? Could it have belonged to the guy that knocked me down? Or was I grasping?

What really happened there?

Wind tugged at my hair, and thunder cracked. Clouds burst, and heavy rain poured. Wet clothes clung to my body, and I pushed dripping hair from my eyes. My heels sunk into the wet earth as I sprinted to my car. The smooth soles of my shoes held no traction, and I slipped on the slick grass and fell onto my rear. I scrambled to my feet and shuffled the rest of the way, sloshing into a puddle on the road before climbing into my car. Saturated, cold, and mucky, I sat inside my vehicle. I put the dirty, wet business card onto the seat beside me and panted.

What the hell was I doing? I felt like an idiot, probably looked like one too, searching for clues in an electrical storm. They did not train me in this field of investigation.

I turned on the ignition and looked at the house and at the dumpster. Shivering, I flipped on the heat.

Yes, I was inexperienced in crime investigation. Green as an Irish meadow. But, with my safety at risk, I was even more motivated to learn pretty damn quick.

Chapter Nine

I slammed the car door and darted through the rain into my apartment. In the doorway, I removed my mud-caked shoes, torn stockings, and soiled sweater and dress. I ambled to the bedroom closet and put on a robe and a pair of flip-flop slippers. With an armful of soiled clothes, I headed out the back door and descended the exterior stairs to the basement laundry room. Debra, the upstairs tenant, and I shared the washer and dryer down cellar, which was only accessible by a separate exterior entrance. Fortunately, an awning covered the outside staircase.

The old unfinished cellar housed spiders and centipedes of exceptional size, and I never knew when I’d find a flooded floor from the sewer backup. I grabbed the key from under the mat and realized I didn’t need it. I pushed open the unlatched door—Debra often left it unlocked. I flipped on the switch to the dangling bulb, but the light didn’t turn on.

Great.

In the darkness, I headed to the washer. A dehumidifier rattled on the other side of the room. I tried to ignore the eerie storage area filled with dusty stacks of boxes, random house items, and even a creepy dress form.

I strained to see as I opened the lid of the washer and dropped in my clothes with a detergent pod. I hit buttons, and the machine rumbled to life. I turned to head back upstairs when a gust of air blew across my face and tickled my neck. I froze. I tried not to think of the fact that I believed in ghosts. Cool air continued to circulate around me, and goose bumps covered my forearms. The basement window gaped open. I reached up to shut it and brushed my hand through a sticky web. I gasped, busted outside, and darted up the stairs as fast as I could.

I hated that old creepy basement.

My chest heaved, and I locked the back door. With everything that had been happening the past few days, my nerves were fraying. I could almost feel them, popping one fiber at a time. I wondered why the basement window was open. The most obvious reason dawned on me, which was that someone had tried to break in. Or maybe someone had broken in. Or maybe someone had broken in and was still in the basement. My legs felt like jelly, and I dove for my cell phone. I called Patrick’s number, but it went to voicemail.

“Hey, Patrick, it’s me. Please call me. Thanks.”

I tiptoed through the apartment and surveyed each room and closet. Nothing appeared to be touched or disturbed. I relaxed a smidgen.

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