The Onion Girl Read Online Free Page A

half the city would probably show up for her funeral.
    Wendy put her hand to her mouth, even though she hadn’t spoken the words aloud.
    Oh, god, she told herself. Don’t even think such a thing.
    Mona touched her arm. “Are you okay?”
    Wendy nodded. Before she could fumble an explanation as to what had made her suddenly go so pale, the door to the waiting room opened and Lou Fucceri and Angel came in. Lou smelled like cigarette smoke, Angel of a blend of cardamom and ylang ylang oils.
    It was odd seeing the two of them like this. They hadn’t been an item for almost twenty years, but whenever Wendy saw them together, it was impossible for her not to think of them as a couple. Neither had gone on to get married, or even had a long-term relationship since they’d broken up, but they hadn’t tried to fix whatever had gone wrong between them either.
    Wendy thought it was their jobs. They both had careers rooted in heartbreak and frustration, neither of which allowed much emotional strength left over to work on a relationship. Because of those careers they had locked horns more often than not, disagreeing on the letter of the law and how the people who broke it were best served.

    Lou was a career policeman. He’d risen to the rank of lieutenant since Jilly first met him as a rookie street cop—when “my life began again,” as Jilly put it—without asking for or taking favors. He was a tall, broad-shouldered Italian whose people had a long history of either entering law enforcement or working for the Cerone family on the other side of the law, which could make holidays and birthdays strained affairs at the best of times.
    Angela Marceau was a counselor for street people and runaways. She had a walk-in office on Grasso Street and wasn’t above bending, if not outright breaking, the law if the safety of one of her charges was at stake. Wendy had first met her years ago and Angel was as gorgeous now as she’d been back then. She had a heart-shaped face, framed by a cascade of curly dark hair, and deep warm eyes. Her trim figure didn’t sport wings, and she leaned more toward baggy pants, T-shirts, and high-tops than she did harps and shimmering gowns, but some of the street people claimed she really was a messenger from God, come down to help them. She certainly had the Botticelli image down, updated for present times.
    â€œHas she come to again?” Angel asked after she and Lou had said their hellos.
    Sophie shook her head. “But she’s out of the coma. The doctor said she’s just sleeping now.”
    â€œShe’ll need all the rest she can get after that sort of trauma.”
    â€œRest, Jilly,” Mona murmured from beside Wendy. “Somehow you don’t expect to hear those two words in the same sentence.”
    â€œHas there been any word on the driver of the car?” the professor asked Lou.
    Everyone fell quiet to hear his response. Lou got an uncomfortable expression and a horrible feeling shivered through Wendy.
    Don’t tell us, she wanted to say. If it’s more bad news, just don’t tell us.
    But they had to know. That was the only way to face your fears. You can’t stand up to the night until you understand what’s hiding in its shadows, someone had told her once.
    â€œThere’s been a complication,” Lou finally said. “Dispatch got a call late this afternoon from Jilly’s landlady …” He looked old, sagging in on himself, as though having to describe what had happened was more than he could bear. “Somebody trashed the studio. I mean they really had themselves a time. They cut her paintings into ribbons, pulled everything
out of her drawers and shelves, and went to town tossing it around. The place looks like a hurricane hit it. Everything reeks of turpentine and solvents. But it’s the paintings …”
    He shook his head. All those years on the street, with all he must