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

ringing until I opened it, when she charged in, raving.
    “What’s wrong with you, Elle? Why didn’t you answer? I’ve been standing there ringing your bell for ten minutes.”
    Ten minutes?
    “You’ve got to be more responsible. You can’t just pull Elles like that.”
    “Pulling Elles” meant spacing out, drifting, getting lost in time. Apparently, I did it so often that my friends had given it a name.
    “You didn’t call when you got home, so I got worried. You didn’t answer my texts, either. What’s wrong with you? You know our deal.”
    She went on, scolding. Our deal, she said, was nothing to take lightly. We were women living alone in a city with a high crime rate and, when we went out at night, we needed to check in with each other. It was irresponsible of me not to. When she hadn’t heard from me, she’d called. When I hadn’t answered, she’d come all the way over to my house, seen my bedroom light on, and rung the bell. When I hadn’t answered, she’d called my phone again. She’d been about to call the police.
    As she ranted, Becky stomped in circles around my entry-way. Finally, she threw her phone into her bag and dropped the bag emphatically on the table by the door. When she finally looked at me, she froze, silent. Her mouth opened. Her right hand rose to cover it. “Oh my God. What happened? Is all that from your hand?”
    I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t have an answer.
    “Oh God, Elle. You’re bleeding.”
    I looked down. Saw dark stains on my hands, my shirt.
    Becky gave orders, rotating me, looking at my belly, my arms and back. Finding only the old, no-longer-bleeding bandaged wound on my hand.
    “Elle? Say something. Are you hurt? Talk to me. What’s all this blood?” She held her phone, dialed a number, gripping my arm while talking into it. She was panting, and her eyes darted, looking down the hall, into the living room, up the stairs. She told someone to come to my house, to hurry. When she ended the call, her voice got quiet. “Elle. Tell me what happened.”
    Becky was short but sturdy. I thought about how strong she was as I leaned on her, as she put an arm around me, supporting my weight.
    “Okay. You’re in some kind of shock. Come sit down.” She led me to the living room. Sat with me on the red leather sofa. Good, I thought, that it was red. Blood wouldn’t stain it like the one in the study. That one, the fabric was ruined.
    Becky held onto my hand. “Whose blood is this, Elle? Is somebody hurt?” She watched me.
    I nodded. Felt proud of myself that I’d managed a response.
    “Oh God, who?” Her grip tightened. “Are they still here? Now?”
    Another nod.
    “Are we safe? Are you okay?”
    More nods. I was on a roll.
    “Where are they? Who is it? Were they shot? Do we need an ambulance? God—” She held up her phone. “I’m calling 911.”
    Becky was taking too much time. I had to get back to Charlie, couldn’t leave him alone with my carving knife in his back, so I tugged my arm out of her grasp and headed back to the study, Becky trailing behind me.

    Somehow, time continued to pass. I had moments of clarity when vivid details carved their way into my mind. Cops in my house. Susan appearing. Television trucks out in the street. Neighbors clustering. Lights flashing, red, blue, white. Then, the sick green hue of fluorescent lights. The jutting steel edges of swinging doors. The coarse black eyebrow hairs and stubble popping from a sergeant’s pores. Details assaulted me in hordes, overwhelmed me. So I drifted willfully. Letting events carry on around me. Letting myself think about Charlie, that he was dead. Murdered. In my house. And that, despite that, I’d heard him call my name, felt him kiss my neck.
    I was not superstitious. Did not believe in ghosts. Knew that dead men could neither talk nor kiss.
    But clearly, from the coolness of his body, Charlie had been dead for a while. Longer than the few minutes I’d been in the house before