Page 21 of Only the Devil
Daisy
A stream of sunshine lights the room through the one-inch gap below the closed bedroom door. Waking slowly, I stretch in my cocoon—and go still when my back presses into a firm body. That body rolls, and one arm falls over me, the weight heavy, the skin warm.
The events of yesterday flash by in lightning form: the cracked door, the body, our hushed departure. Me asking Jake to sleep with me. As if I was injured.
Why did seeing a stranger’s body rattle me? I don’t rattle. When my mom unraveled, I kept everything running. When gunfire snapped during my rescue, I stayed steady. I don’t crack. I’m better than that.
I rub the sleep out of my eyes and take stock. I don’t feel dazed now. No, if anything, I’m embarrassed by how I acted. Or no, annoyed with myself.
Mom found Uncle Alvin. I pushed her to go check on him and never even asked how she handled it. I should have. But she’d been worried about me and I never even thought to turn that around, to ask her how she was.
The police said he’d been dead for about a week by the time she found him.
I’d been the one to urge her to go check on him, but mainly because I’d ordered a birthday cake for him and he never called. When I had her check on him, I hadn’t been worried about his safety. I feared he’d gone back to the casino and was either sitting there day and night, or he’d lost everything and was too ashamed, so laying low, or worse, drinking himself into oblivion.
I didn’t arrive at his apartment until after his body had been removed. Mom had even cleaned out the refrigerator and straightened before I entered his place for the last time. And that had been hard enough. The space felt like he was still there—a time capsule of sorts. Like he was sitting in an adjacent room and would come around the corner, asking if I was hungry, if I needed a snack.
Jake’s hips shift and the subtle movement presses what I am absolutely positive is his morning wood against my backside. And that’s my signal to get moving. I’m careful to escape his clingy limbs without waking the sleeping giant, letting my feet fall silently on the cool hardwood floor. I stand there for a moment, admiring his ridiculously chiseled abs where his T-shirt rode up in his sleep, then snap out of it and get going. I’ve got to focus. A woman died, and besides, that’s not why he’s here and certainly not why I’m here.
When he wakes, I’ll thank him for sleeping with me. Of course, he didn’t sleep with me like that. He just slept in the bed, which I imagine is a lot more comfortable than the sofa in the loft area.
For all my griping about Rhodes being ridiculous, Jake’s actually been a pretty cool guy and he’s proven to be a considerate roommate. More considerate than me, if I’m honest. And, while I maintain I don’t need protection, I’m grateful he was with me yesterday. And last night.
As I descend the stairs to the main living area, slightly lightheaded and my muscles stiff, I can’t help but focus on the building across the street. It’s Saturday morning, and it’s eerily quiet.
I expect at some point today, there will be at the very least an ambulance. Unless they don’t call an ambulance for someone who is already dead. Who would they call then? The police? I’m not sure.
If I’d asked my mom for details, I would know.
Thinking back to that conversation, the phone call, I focused on the loss. When I close my eyes sometimes, I still see the faded blue concrete of the hollowed-out Hollywood Dreams apartment pool with the algae-infested puddles, and the folding chair with the seat indention that Uncle Alvin made by sitting every day looking over that pool, waiting for me to come home from school. No blood relation, but he’d been Uncle Alvin since maybe third grade. He was the best kind of family, the kind you chose.
It wasn’t until I was going through his stuff—his heavy wooden desk in particular—that I realized he’d lost everything. And he believed he’d been scammed, and he was doing something about it. He was the most frugal person I’ve ever met, so I thought he’d been flat broke, like us. But now I suspect when he’d buy my school supplies, my first computer, clothes—he wasn’t reaping veteran discounts. No, he was using his savings.
He had lost everything. The stack of overdue bills made that clear. But I’d had no clue. He never shared; never told me he needed money. I could’ve helped him out. But he never asked; never let me know. I had to find out when going through his crammed desk drawer.
Yesterday, if we had called 911 like Jake wanted, I would’ve learned the process when a dead body is found. But my instinct was a good one—I hope. I couldn’t explain why I found her. Being in the office? Sure. I left my headphones. An easy explanation. Being in a back hallway on the executive floor when no one else was there? No matter what I said, there would be suspicion.
After starting the coffee machine, I stretch on the floor as it gurgles. My muscles ache, and I deepen the stretch, but it’s amazing how much clearer my thoughts are after one night’s sleep. The scent of brewing java helps, too.
The sunlight peeking through the partially closed blinds casts geometric shapes on the wall. It feels like a new day, but that new day feeling dissipates with one glance at the glass structure across the street.
Walking in and discovering that woman really threw me.
Who was she? I read her nameplate on the way into the office. Jocelyn Faribault. I wonder what she did. She had to have been an executive, right? She had an office on the executive floor.
I pull out my laptop and check the Sterling Financial website, reading through the About Us section. There’s no mention of her, but they don’t provide a public employee listing.
LinkedIn will have her. I’m already connected to Ms. Weaver. My knee bounces in time with rapid-fire of keyboard keys.
And there she is. Ms. Faribault. She lists her current title as corporate comptroller, and she seems to be the type who would keep her LinkedIn profile up-to-date.
Does ARGUS have a corporate comptroller?
A quick search tells me the corporate comptroller oversees accounting, financial reporting, and internal controls, and typically reports to the CFO.
If I’m right that Sterling Financial is as crooked as spaghetti code, then that’s a precarious position to hold.
Suspicious. But it’s not like she was bludgeoned to death. Or shot.
