Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie Read Online Free Page A

wasn’t hiding any more. He was reclining on the gray velvet couch, big as life, watching me.

    I didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. I simply turned away again, opening the minifridge, getting some ice. Charlie liked rocks. “Drink?”
    Charlie didn’t answer.
    I poured him one anyhow, swirled the Scotch to cool it. I made myself a refill, too. Took another long swallow, let it slide down my throat. Savored its burn. Or maybe the burn was my temper.
    “So.” I held his drink out. “I didn’t get the memo—why have you called this meeting?”
    He sat still, staring at me. Not reaching for his drink. Not answering.
    “Okay, Charlie. Enough.” I set both drinks down on the liquor cabinet and walked over to him. “Tell me what you’re—”
    I’m not sure when I finally realized something was wrong. Maybe it was when I saw the slackness of his jaw. Or when I noticed that his brown eyes didn’t move, didn’t follow me as I approached, just stared fixedly at the wall.
    For sure, though, I knew when I touched him, when I took his hand, intending to lead him to the door. When I felt it, cool and gripless, offering neither resistance nor acceptance, just hanging there on the end of his arm, a couple pounds of meat.
    These events—seeing his jaw and eyes, touching his hand—happened in a flash. Too quickly for my mind to register or interpret their significance. So I persisted in challenging him, tugging at Charlie’s hand, harping at him to explain himself, unwilling or unable to grasp the truth that he was never going to do so. In fact, I continued scolding, didn’t stop even as he slowly tilted and slumped onto his side. Even when I saw the blood soaking his Polo windbreaker. God help me, I was still yapping when I saw the handle of a carving knife, one I recognized from my own kitchen, protruding from his back.

    Seconds? An hour? A century? I have no idea how long we remained there, Charlie dead and me yelling at him, pulling and tugging, slapping and shoving at him. For a while, my mind floated away, and I watched myself, my frantic futile struggle to deny the truth. But at some point, I remember the doorbell ringing. At first, I had no idea what the sound was. An irritating repetitive clanging chime. Distant. Irrelevant, because it was unrelated to the sole focus of my being: the act of rousing Charlie. But it persisted. And eventually, it penetrated the thick walls of hysterical confusion and denial engulfing me.
    It made me stop yammering, come back to reality, and let go of him. It made me listen and pay attention. Identify the sound. Alarm clock? Smoke alarm? Cell phone? Microwave? Doorbell? Oh yes, doorbell. And, during that process, my mind had time to reach the semicoherent, if unacceptable conclusion: Charlie was dead.
    Dead? My mind wasn’t working. Couldn’t process. The thought ricocheted, bouncing and rebounding, reverberating against my skull. Charlie was dead? Dead? Charlie was dead.
    The bell kept ringing. And my cell phone began singing. A symphony of signals. I squatted beside Charlie, watching him. Hearing Elvis belt out my ringtone. “We’re caught in a trap—” And the door chime. Dinnnng Dong. Charlie had chosen the bell; it was nothing elaborate. Just basic and classic: two simple and distinct bells, the first one longer than the second. Dinnnng and dong. Elvis sang. “Because I love you too much, Baby—”
    But Charlie’s mouth wouldn’t close. Nor would his eyes. He stared at air. And I at him.
    Another dinnnng. Another dong. Elvis stopped singing, started again. Why? How long had the doorbell been ringing? Nothing made sense, not Charlie’s body, not the reason for phones or doorbells. My mind was at a full stop. Entirely useless. Finally, I got up and went to the door, but not to answer it. I just wanted to locate the noise, the terrible dinnnnging and donging, and make it stop.

    “Damn, Elle. I was about to call the cops.”
    Becky. It was Becky at the door. Pounding and