Low Pressure

“No,” she said huskily.

Scrawled in red paint on the wall was: You’ll be sorry.

The paint had run, leaving rivulets at the bottom of each letter that looked like dripping blood. In lieu of a paintbrush, a pair of her underwear had been used to write the letters.

The significance of that escaped neither of them.

Dent motioned toward the paint-soaked wad of silk lying on the carpet. “Yours?” When she nodded, he said, “Sick bastard. Police on their way?”

She roused herself, pulled her gaze away from the message on the wall, and looked up at him. “I didn’t call them.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I don’t want a big deal made of this.”

He thought surely he had heard her wrong, and his expression must have conveyed that.

“It was a prank,” she said. “When I moved in, a neighbor warned of things like this happening in the area. There’s been a rash of it. Teenagers with not enough to do. Maybe an initiation of some kind. They scatter trash across lawns. Knock over mailboxes. I’m told they hit a whole block one night last month.”

He looked at the vandalized wall, the garment on the floor, then came back to her. “Your panties were used to paint a threatening message on your bedroom wall, and you put that on par with scattered trash and banged-up mailboxes?”

“I’m not calling the police. Nothing was taken. Not that I can tell, anyway. It was just… just mischief.”

She turned quickly and left the room. Dent went after her, clumping down the stairs on her heels. “When I got here you were shaking like a leaf. Now you’re passing this off as a prank?”

“I’m certain that’s all it was.”

She rounded the newel post and headed for the kitchen, Dent only half a step behind her. “Uh-uh. I ain’t buying it. What are you going to be sorry for?”

“I have no idea.”

“I think you do.”

“It’s none of your business. What are you doing here, anyway?” She dragged a chair from the kitchen dining table into the utility room and pushed it against the door to keep it closed. “The neighbor’s cat comes to visit uninvited.”

When she turned back, Dent was there, blocking her. “I’ve a good mind to call the police myself.”

“Don’t you dare. The media would get wind of it, and then I’d have that to deal with, too.”

“Too? In addition to what?”

“Nothing. Just… just please let it go. I’m waiting for the call that my father has died. I can’t take on any more right now. Can’t you understand that?”

He understood that the woman was on the verge of a meltdown. Her eyes were stark with something. Fear? Her voice was unsteady, like it was about to crack. She was holding on to the ledge by her fingernails, but she was holding on, and he had to give her credit for that.

He softened his approach. “Look, thanks to your family, I’m no fan of cops, either. But I still think you should report this.”

“They’ll show up with lights flashing.”

“Probably.”

“No thank you. I could do without the circus. I’m not calling them.”

“Okay, then a neighbor.”

“What for?”

“Ask if you can crash on their sofa.”