Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“Momma, I’ve got the Moscato d’Asti. Your fave.” I stepped into the apartment, pulling off my crossbody purse.
Smiling at the thought of Mom-and-me time since Dad was away at a health convention, I flipped on the lights. “Sheesh, I hate daylight savings, but why is it so dark in here?”
The smile disintegrated.
My life imploded.
Knees surrendered to gravity, I hit the floor as a sob escaped my lips. I crawled frantically to my mom’s body, pierced with stab wounds and soaked in blood.
As I neared her, the stench of death brought bile hurling from the pit of my stomach. I choked the sourness back down. Mom’s blouse was saturated in blood.
Was it the blue one?
The blue one had the same ruffles.
The white and black striped blouse had the same gatherings too. I touched her once beautiful warm, brown skin.
“Mom, Momma, please.” I held her close as every thought escaped me.
I cried. My brain began to throb against my skull. There was no turning back time. I called the cops, and Detective Caruso promised my heart would one day begin to beat again.
* * *
I can’t stop thinking of Gina. Before Victor, Momma only made a debut in my psyche when I took flowers to Dad; otherwise, she didn’t exist, or she was just Gina—a woman killed in her home then dismissed by the police. It had become my ritual to help me cope. When Victor listened, I reclaimed my emotional attachment to Momma. However, Caruso’s appearance had just taken Momma from me again. I need her to cease to exist. So, I bring Gina back. I have to cope somehow to make it through this.
Detective Caruso’s head tilts. He appears to have been asking me something. “Luxury? Luxury? Lux . . .”
“As I’ve said before,” I robotically reply, “Sidorov was a stranger. Never heard of him.”
“Listen, Luxury, Watts did not shoot Sidorov. Once ballistics returns, it will set the foundation for what I already know.”
“But Deon—”
“We had a few hits on Sidorov around the States. Interpol also wants him. If this had been any bum off the street coming into rob Urban Gardens, I wouldn’t be asking so many questions.”
“You keep asking me the same thing, though. I never met Sidorov in my life. You can’t cross a man like him without recalling it. The second he arrived, I felt odd.” I shrug. “What else can I say about this man? You’ve asked me question after question. Have I done something wrong? Do you think I—”
“No, Miss Whitson. The trajectory of blood on your face and clothing indicates that you weren’t the shooter either. Accusing you wasn’t my intention. As I said, any other perp and case closed.” Caruso almost winces at that inference. “Deon had an unregistered gun. But as far as our lengthy conversation goes, it’s to sort out Sidorov’s sordid past. So, I will keep in touch.”
Legs shaky, it takes all my strength to stand. “Sure you will.” I bite my lip. I hadn’t meant to appear so sardonic. Yes, I expect Caruso to keep in touch. But after a year of my mom being gone, the detective won’t be communicating with me for closure. Still, I soften my approach. “Thank you for the coffee.”
He nods. “If you think of anything. If you feel like you’ve been watched in the past, let me know. We’ll want to piece together Sidorov’s time in the area, Miss Whitson.”
I nod and start out the door. There must be something the police aren’t telling me.
While a uniform cop escorts me into the lobby, I chew my lip, wondering who to reach out to. I can’t call Dad. Momma’s death broke him. He still isn’t the same. But I can’t be alone.
I dial Victor.
“Little One, I’ve been thinking of you.”
My eyelids flutter closed at the sound of Victor’s voice. I could use his demands. The slightest smile floats onto my lips.
“Hey, Vic.” I need you so bad right now.
“You sound stressed? Where are you?” he asks as a percussion of honking cars plays in the background.
“At the police station near my shop.”
“What?”
“I was almost robbed. Luckily a friend came and shot the guy.”
“Don’t move, Little One,” he tells me in a stern voice.
The extreme debt crosses my mind; however, I want him to command me into various positions.
Hell, I’ll take a spanking, call him daddy. Victor’s an irresistible distraction.
Questioning his financial choices causes a tightening in my throat. I sigh. “You don’t have to send a car. I’ll grab a Ub—”
“Rubbish.”
“Vic.”
“What sort of bloke has a chauffeur retrieve his woman after she’s been accosted? I will be there shortly.”
The call ends. Though I’m all shaken up, Victor’s assertiveness places Momma into the tiny compartment in my brain—right where she belongs.
I shiver at the thought of being enveloped in his arms, to inhale him, and be assured that our relationship will outlast my worries.