Chapter 8 - Bottom of the Bottle

CHAPTER 8

The hallway was just as musty as it'd been that morning, stuffy even. The abandoned apartment, up on the third floor, was also locked, but I had a feeling this lock wouldn't take me as long. My hands were shaking when I pulled the pick set back out. The scraped, striped nail was staring back at me. I put my own probable Sodroxide symptoms out of mind for now and went to work.

I lowered my voice to a whisper. I didn't want Pete to hear us out there.

“Pete left me a letter, telling me he found a body at Marlowe's. He thought it was from the '20s, but I'm pretty sure it's more recent, like two years old.”

He interrupted me, “A body? Like, dead?!” It struck me then that that sort of outraged reaction was normal. For a fleeting moment I wondered what the hell was wrong with me that I wasn't more affected by the dead body, or its gruesome stashing in a wall, or the fact that I'd seen it, and held it. Then I pushed those punishing thoughts aside. If I could vindicate this body, there was no need to feel bad about my lack of compassion for it. I nodded.

George calculated quickly in his head. “Two years? Then it could be – ”

Chapter 7 - The Bottom of the Bottle

CHAPTER 7

I let the green door slam hard on my way out. Even though I knew it was unlikely that she'd hear it from the basement, it was the only thing I could do to express my anger.

Sure, I could have chased after her and chewed her out, but that would have given her the chance to respond. Plus, I kind of liked the idea of Aimee unknowingly being in the basement with a gross dead body.

That two-faced behavior was just like her – really, I was to blame for having been taken in. She was never one to fully trust a woman, but it was typical of her to warm me up just to cut me down – especially given how much she blamed me for Pete losing his investment.

I realized I hadn't even thought to ask what her take on Pete going MIA was – after all, abandoning all his shifts must have really upped her hours. She was probably enjoying the extra tips.

I hopped a cab home and collapsed into the seat. My internal clock had been wound and rewound these last few days, and I needed some sleep, pronto.

I'm not proud of what I did once I got home. I was beat and my feelings were hurt. I'd selfishly imagined that, like me, Pete had remained single these last two years. Of course he hadn't. He was a man. He was a bartender. He was a charming, loser, fixer-upper stud. He probably got laid every night of the week. But, if Aimee hadn't just been saying that to hurt me, he'd also found someone to fall for, someone to actually date, at least for awhile. So I crawled into bed and cried.

Never a big sleeper, I was only able to force my body to accept three hours of sleep, and cursed my high-strung brain as I looked at the clock and saw that it was only 9pm. Then again, I should have cursed my stomach – that single slice of pizza hadn't done much to fill it and it growled at me again.

I grabbed a snack of crackers, deli cheese and apple slices. I wasn't being fancy. The apple was severely dented and I had to cut out good pieces. I really needed to go to the supermarket. I tell myself that every day.

I hopped in and out of the shower and was stuffing my dirty clothes in the hamper when I heard paper crinkling – like a red string tied around my finger.

I pulled out the slacks I'd worn yesterday when I dressed for the Harding meeting but ended up at Marlowe's instead. The day Len gave me the letter Pete left for me. The letter Pete wrote when, according to Len, he'd planned to be gone for good.

I ripped it open.

Chapter 6 - The Bottom of the Bottle

CHAPTER 6

I trudged up the subway exit at Bergen Street. I'd been conflicted since I left the meeting. The idea that I might now know who was decaying in Marlowe's wall was competing for attention with the need to contact the police. I also knew that Pete thought he was in danger, and that he really wanted me to forget all about the body in the wall, which made me not want to contact the authorities. Which went against every instinct in my body.

I found myself leaving Harding and taking the route out of work I used to take when I was dating Pete, getting on the 2 train without thinking. The 2 takes me nowhere near home, but there's a stop a block from Marlowe's. That's where I got off.

It was around 4pm and the warm early-June sunlight contrasted strongly with my troubled mood.

I knew Pete had told me to return to my normal life, but what normal life? My currently planned future was falling apart faster than Stephanie could criticize what I'd written to date, and I had no real new ideas.

In fact, the only thing consuming me was this new mystery. That, and hunger. Since the TST closed Bruno's Pizza, I had to walk three blocks further to grab a greasy slice. Once my hunger was dealt with, I turned back to the dilemma at hand.

Writing was investigation, imagination investigation – and here was a real mystery that had been dropped into my lap. Forced into my lap by Peter. Just because he delusionally thought he'd put me in danger didn't mean he could erase everything I'd learned in the last day.

I went through the green door.

Chapter 5 - The Body at the Bottom of the Bottle

CHAPTER 5

“Do you know who this is?” I asked him, indicating the skull and hand.

Peter looked like he was about to faint. He sat down but couldn't take his eyes off the bones. He shook his head slowly.

I didn't quite believe him. “Do you think you know who this might be?” I repeated.

He tore his gaze away from the head, glanced at me, then moved on to the hand, picking it up. Ignoring the question, he asked, “How do you think it – she – died?” His voice was very quiet.

I indicated the hole in the head. “Probably what they'd call blunt-force trauma. Hit in the head.” I couldn't believe what I was tangled up in.

“Could she have been poisoned?”

“Not likely,” I indicated the hole in the head again. I wasn't following him.

He held out the hand, pointing at the knuckles. “What about these?”

I took the hand. The knuckles looked normal. For a dead hand.

“They look fine, I mean, I've never seen a dead hand in person, Pete, I don't know what it's supposed to look like.”

He was looking down at his own hands, still gloved. He flexed his fingers, making and releasing a fist.

I hadn't anticipated he'd respond this way. He'd done a one-eighty since his excitement while pulling the skull out of the wall. I drained my tea.

Eyes still averted, “Her knuckles look swollen.”

“That's hard to determine. I mean, maybe she had weird hands.”

I put my empty mug on the coffee table and stood. He moved to my seat, taking the hand in his again, running his fingers over her knuckles.

I brought over the still-warm kettle and refilled my mug, using the same tea bag.

“I don't think she had weird hands,” he said.

I took a sip of my weak tea. “Pete, are you sure you don't know who this is?”

Idea for second book:

Novel I'm working on now: Soon-to-be young female PI witnesses the kidnapping of a drinking, drugging, bartending unfit mother she's supposed to serve child custody papers to - but no one believes the victim didn't just take off on her own!

Thoughts?

Chapter 4 - The Body at the Bottom of the Bottle

CHAPTER 4

I woke with a start. Pete was shaking me.

“Wake-up-wake-up-wake-up are-you-okay?” He honestly sounded concerned, which made me concerned.

But I felt okay. I shoved him away and sat up. My usual surliness upon waking seemed to convince him I was fine.

My head felt better than it had all day. Assuming it was the same day. The curtains had been pulled aside slightly and the dark sky outside the window seemed to indicate that night had fallen. I still had a dull pain in my head, but it was a familiar pain.

Since the gun and severed hand were out of sight, I decided to play nice.

“Caffeine.”

“You trust me?”

“No, but I haven't had any caffeine since before noon and I've apparently taken two naps, so if you don't want me to turn into a bad hostage, bring me some caffeine.” I was fairly certain that would assuage my headache.

He went behind the curtain and I heard a cupboard open and close. He came back with a bottle of diet cola. It was sealed, so I took a chance and drank it.

“Where's the hand?” I asked.

“Hidden.”

I pointed to the floor.

Pete said, “No, somewhere else.”

I pointed to the knapsack now at his feet. He shrugged assent. He checked his watch. It hung loose from his wrist.

“We gotta go.” He held out his hand.

There was still some of the old Pete in his face. Behind the panic. I took his gloved hand and let him help me stand. I was barely wobbly. Once I was stable, he dropped my hand and led me through the curtain. As I'd presumed, it was a dinky, typical Brooklyn walk-through apartment. We exited its front door, down the stairs.

Halfway down the stairs, the suspense got the better of me. “Where are we? Where are we going?”

He turned, with childlike excitement. “You'll see.”

Chapters?

Are the chapters too long to read in blog form? Or is it easy to read? Or should I do scenes at a time instead?