Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake) by Rachel Caine (books to read in your 20s female TXT) 📕

and I don’t hesitate. I grab him and drag him into the closest shadowed alleyway, out of sight of anyone who was watching us.

Then I slam him to the ground so hard his ball cap flies off and rolls unsteadily away. He lets out a breathless, injured “Hey!” but stops talking as I twist his arm up behind his back with my knee pinning his opposite side. He’s not going anywhere. “Ow!”

“You sent me a package on Monday,” I say. “Remember?”

“I what?” He turns his head, and I realize there’s something . . . wrong with it. For a second I think, Oh my God, I’ve crushed his skull, because it’s oddly flat under the blur of close-cut dark hair. But the scar that twists through the skin is old. Several years old. “Please, lady! Please don’t! Please don’t hurt me!”

He sounds panicked. And a little odd, a little off, his tone strangely flat. I start rethinking what I’m doing. Oh God. What if I’ve just made an awful mistake? I ease up a little, but I keep holding him down.

“My name is Gina Royal,” I say. “Did you send me a package on Monday? Yes or no.”

“Uh—yes?”

“You’re sure?”

“I guess so.”

“Why?”

“Because—because a guy paid me,” he says. “Cash, two hundred bucks, just to pick up an envelope and take it in and mail it. He even gave me a credit card to use. You want it? You can have it! Take my whole wallet!” He sounds scared. “I didn’t—I didn’t do anything wrong, did I? I didn’t mean to! I was just doing what he said! It was a job, just a job! I don’t work steady!”

Oh Jesus. What have I done? I’m still cynical enough to tug the wallet out of his back pocket and flip it open. His driver’s license says his name is Leonard Bay, and he lives here in Knoxville: 250 Beacon Street. I take a photo with my phone, then check the credit cards. He has only two. One’s a pay-as-you-go debit card, and the other is a credit card in the name of Penny Maguire. I slide it out, careful to hold just the sides, and slip that into my pocket. “Okay,” I tell him. “Relax. Relax. I’m sorry. Are you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?” I wince at the thought, because what I’ve done is most certainly assault, and even if I dump the fake warrant and badge, the damage is done because the clerk will be able to identify me and swear he saw me chase this poor man out of the store.

“I think I’m okay,” he says. He still sounds shaky. He’s not fighting me at all. “Are you going to take my money?”

“No,” I tell him, and put it back in his pocket. “I didn’t take anything but that credit card, and only because it isn’t yours. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“What can you tell me about the man who paid you?”

“I met him on the street,” he said. “I was—I’m going to be honest with you, ma’am, I was panhandling. I was low on my rent money. He said he’d pay me, and he did. I was worried about that credit card. I wasn’t going to use it for fun.”

I don’t think that last part is true, but I let it go. And after another hesitation, I let him go. I loosen my grip on his arm and lever my weight off him. He doesn’t move for a second or two, as if he’s afraid something worse is coming, and then he turns on his side to look at me. There’s a fresh scrape on his cheek, but other than that, he doesn’t seem hurt. Not much emotion in his face. Maybe, with that kind of frightful head injury, he’s lost a lot of ability to communicate expressions, even fear. I try to remember whether he looked scared before he started running. I don’t know.

“Okay, Leonard.”

“Len,” he says. “I like Len better.”

“Len,” I say, and nod. “Do you remember anything about that man? How tall he was, maybe? You can sit up if you want to. Do you need help?”

I offer a hand, and after a wary hesitation, he takes it. He sits up and scoots back until he’s sitting against the brick wall. It’s cool in these shadows, but I can see him clearly. We’re now blocked from street view by the dumpster, which eases my nerves. I crouch down to put us on a level. “What do you think?” I ask. “Was he tall or short?”

“On the tall side, I guess.”

“How about his skin color?”

“White,” he says immediately. “Kinda tanned, though.”

We go through the rest of the questions, and Len seems utterly calm by the end of it. His answers come slowly sometimes, but I never get the sense he’s lying. I’m sweating, aware that people could have called in the foot chase to the police, and I’m on the alert for any sound of sirens. So far, nothing. But I’m well aware of time pressure.

Unfortunately, for all my coaching, what I end up with is a completely unremarkable profile of a ghost. There’s nothing I learn from Len except for the credit card I’ve confiscated. And for the risk I just took, I’m not sure that was at all smart of me.

I help Len up, dust him off, and impulsively dig cash out of my pocket. “Here,” I tell him, and hand him two twenties. “If I hurt you at all, I’m very sorry; I never meant to do that. Are you sure you don’t need a doctor? I’m happy to take you to an ER, or a clinic, and pay . . .”

“No ma’am, I’m all right. I get knocked down by people a lot,” he says. The matter-of-fact tone makes me feel even sorrier for him. I pick up his ball cap, and he puts it on; it disguises the odd shape of his skull, the damage of his terrible injury. I do think about the man in the rented car,