Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 121755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Nothing.
In fact, if there was a person alive on either side of his block, I’d be surprised, it was that dead.
Adding to the feel, like most of the houses, Duane’s place was dark as pitch.
Gemma pulled in about a half a block around the corner to where Duane’s place was half a block down.
“This okay?” she whispered as she cut the lights and ignition.
“Great, sister,” Raye said. Then she looked back at Shanti and me. “Ready?”
I reached to touch the gloves in my back pocket.
Check.
I touched my phone in my other pocket.
Check.
Another touch to the Taser strapped to my hip.
And check.
I’d already pulled Gabe’s cap over my head and meticulously tucked my hair in.
Another check.
I nabbed the Maglite.
Last check.
“Ready,” I said.
“Me too,” Shanti said.
“Let’s roll,” Raye said.
We did, sauntering down the street looking like cat burglars armed with Tasers.
But Raye told us in the briefing (and Cap had butted in to grunt his concurrence) that, if you looked like you were supposed to be where you were, even if you were totally dressed like someone who was up to no good and strapped with a Taser, people didn’t tend to question it.
However, we didn’t act like we were on a casual stroll.
We didn’t hurry.
But we didn’t fuck around.
As for me—and I figured since they were in on this, it was the same for the other women—I did this feeling the rush.
I didn’t feel anxious, just hyper-alert because of that rush.
I wasn’t sure this was the smartest reaction to have.
What I was sure of was that I trusted these women with me. I trusted them with my heart. I trusted them with my life.
Oh yeah.
Mm-hmm.
That was how great my friend posse was.
If you could trust them to commit a felony with them (for a good cause, of course), they were the genuine article.
Duane’s house was tiny and ill-kept. He’d let the sun burn his grass to dirt, and he hadn’t done anything about it. It needed a paint job. And it just looked sad.
The good thing was, all the houses around it were the same, so it wasn’t like he was letting down the neighborhood—if you could count that as good.
Considering I’d latched on to my usual cheerfulness and optimism, I was going with that.
As planned, Shanti broke off to hit her lookout spot, and Raye and I walked right to the backyard.
We snapped on our gloves, and she went to one window. I went to another. We both went to work on them.
It wasn’t the easiest thing, jimmying the screen out with my penknife (Tex gave mine to me when I became an official Angel, it was adorbs, it had cherry blossoms on it!).
But I got the screen out and went after the window.
Locked.
Raye experienced the same thing.
We went past the back door and did the same with the next two windows.
Also locked.
Shit.
We shared a glance and went to the back door.
I opened the rickety screen.
She muttered, “I saw Cap do this once, so here goes nothing.”
She lifted her black Puma, and putting substantial power behind it (I was impressed), she thumped the door with her foot right by the handle.
It popped open.
We were both so surprised that worked, we stood there in stupefied silence, wasting long, precious moments staring at the open door, before she said, “Text.”
I nodded, yanked out my phone, hit up the group chat I’d already programed, and texted, We’re in.
I stowed my phone and followed her in.
It became apparent very quickly that Duane didn’t harbor his reserves of energy in not doing yard work or maintenance because he was all about keeping the inside neat and clean.
It smelled like sweat, fried food and lost hope.
We entered a tiny utility room piled with so much dirty laundry, it hid the laundry machines.
This fed into the kitchen.
Ulk.
Mm-hmm.
Duane wasn’t about being neat and clean.
Or maintenance.
Raye had a Maglite too. We switched them on, kept the beams to the ground, and she jerked her head toward the front living room.
I nodded, she headed that way, and I started to look through the detritus strewn all over a beat-up kitchen table.
Bills. Fliers. Pamphlets. Used cereal bowls. Dried coffee and milk stains on the tabletop.
And porn.
In the kitchen.
Gag.
There was nothing there. No threatening messages formed from letters from magazines. No ransom notes. No bank statements I could peruse for strange deposits. No shrine to Amy Small. No diary we could read about his unrequited love and how she was in danger.
I was moving toward the beat-up and chipping L-shaped kitchen counter when my phone vibrated in my back pocket.
I pulled it out, looked at it, and read Shanti’s text, Get out.
Fuck!
I whistled and went to the door to the living room to see Raye bent over what looked like another stack of porn by a shabby armchair, but her head was tipped back, and she was looking my way.