Memory in Death (In Death 22)

She paced, ordered more coffee.

Scared when she leaves Roarke. Contacts her pal, her cohort. Cries the blues. Could’ve cooked up the next part together.

She turned to her murder board, studied the photos of Trudy’s face.

“What does it take to do that to yourself?” Eve muttered. “Plenty of motivation. Plenty of anger. But how the hell did you expect to prove you got tuned up by me or Roarke, or somebody we sicced on you?”

Back to stupid, she thought with a shake of her head. That was leading with anger, that was impulse and fury. Smarter to have gotten one or both of us out of the house on some pretext, somewhere we wouldn’t be easily alibied. Stupid to assume we wouldn’t have one. Sloppy.

A memory nudged at her, nearly faded once more. Eve closed her eyes, pressed and focused.

Dark. Can’t sleep. Too hungry. But the door of her room was locked from the outside. Trudy didn’t like her to wande

r around the house— sneaking around, getting into trouble.

She was being punished anyway.

She’d talked to the boy across the street, a couple of his friends. Older boys. Taken a ride on one of their boards. Trudy didn’t like the boy across the street, or his friends.

Hoodlums. Delinquents. Vandals. And worse. And you, nothing but a slut. Nine years old and already putting out. That’s nothing new for you, is it? Get upstairs, and you can forget about supper. I don’t feed trash in my house.

Shouldn’t have talked to the boy. But he’d said he’d show her how to use the board, and she’d never ridden one before. They could do tricks on theirs—loops and wheelies and spins. She liked to watch them. The boy had seen her watching, and grinned at her. Motioned her over.

Shouldn’t have gone—hell to pay. But he’d held that colorful board out, said she could take a breeze. He’d show her how.

And when she’d shot off on it, he’d whistled through his teeth. His friends had laughed. He’d said she had balls.

It was—she thought it was—the happiest, most liberating moment of her life at that time. She could remember, even now, the odd way the smile had fit on her face. The way her cheeks had stretched out, and the laugh that had rumbled up in her throat and hurt her chest a little. But a good hurt, like nothing she’d ever experienced.

He’d said she could go again, that she was a natural.

But Trudy had come out, came streaming out with that look on her face. That hell-to-pay look. She had yelled, screamed at Eve to get off that damn thing.

Didn’t I tell you to stay in the yard. Didn’t I say? Who gets the blame if you breaks your fool neck?

You ever think of that?

She hadn’t. Had only thought of the thrill of riding the board for the first time.

Trudy had screamed at the boys, too, told them she’d call the police. She knew what they were up to. Perverts, hoodlums. But they’d just laughed and made rude noises. The one whose board she’d ridden had called Trudy an old bitch, right to her face.

Eve had thought it was the bravest thing she’d ever seen.

He’d given Eve a quick grin, a quick wink, and told her she could have another ride whenever she shook the old bitch loose.

But she’d never ridden it again. She’d stayed away from him, and his friends.

And she’d paid for the momentary thrill with an empty gut.

Later, with stomach growling, she had stood at the window of her room. And she’d seen Trudy go out of the front door below. Had watched her take rocks and smash the windshield of her car, then the side windows. Had watched her spray paint on the hood—and made out the gleam of the letters in the dark.

OLD BITCH

Trudy had then marched across the street, had wiped the can on a rag, and then tossed it into the bushes in front of the boy’s house.

She’d been smiling, a bared-teeth snarl of a smile as she’d walked back toward the house.

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