Page 21 of Chicago Sin
“Where are the keys to that van out back?”
Her eyes widen. “Why? You can’t put a body in it?—”
“There’s no body,” I cut her off. “But we need to leave—now. And I don’t have a car.”
I don’t have a license, either, but that’s sort of the least of my problems. I probably should’ve kept that gun, too. At this point, I’m in for murder and kidnapping. The five years for a felon in possession of a firearm is minor in comparison.
“I-it’s a piece of shit. I don’t even use it because half the time it stalls on me.”
Fuck.
“I’ll take the risk. Where are the goddamn keys?”
“In my purse—Jesus.” She lifts her chin toward the purse tucked under the counter.
I like that she’s offended by my tone and gives a little shit back to me. It means she’s not scared out of her mind. She still believes I ought to treat her better, which, of course, is true. I’m just out of fucking practice with having manners.
I rifle through her purse and find the keys then check her driver’s license for an address. “You live alone?”
She pales. “W-why?”
“‘Cause someone’s trying to kill me. I don’t think I should bring you to my place. Is your place cool?”
Relief flickers over her face, and she gives me a shaky nod. “Yeah. I live alone. I mean, it’s small.”
“Yeah, I just got out of a seven by twelve foot cell. I think we’re good.”
She gets more words out of me than I’ve spared for anyone since I got out, my mother and Don Pachino included. I tug her to the door, but she balks, looking back toward the register.
I tried to read her resistance. “You don’t leave cash in the register at night?”
“I need to make a deposit—tonight. Or your boss won’t get his money when he cashes my check.” A sheen of tears fills her eyes, and it does something weird to my chest.
I’ve felt nothing since they locked me up.
Nada.
No heart beating in my fucking chest.
But now empathy suddenly rears its pansy head.
I don’t know. I guess I’m surprised how little she’s fussed over my treatment of her, but here she’s tearing up about the money.
She must be in dire financial straits.
Buying the business might have been a shit move for her.
I bring her back to the register and flip through the keys on her ring until I find the small one that fits. There’s not that much money in it. I’d say less than three hundred bucks.
“There’s an envelope in that drawer.” She indicates it with her chin.
I find the zippered pouch and tuck the money inside. “That it?”
The sheen of tears appears again, and she nods.
Definitely money trouble.
Well, if she keeps my secret, I’ll owe her. I shove my hand in my pocket. “How short are you?”
