Page 67 of 3rd Tango

“Meg—”

“I know. Believe me. I’d love to drag you in there with me but...” What? What kind of insanity is this that a forensic sculptor is chasing down suspected bank robbers? “Swear to God, I need a new career.”

Behind me, I hear Matt snort. “We all say that.”

Oh, no. No, sir. I am not one of them. Matt and Charlie live for this stuff. A good, juicy homicide? They’ll take it twenty-four seven. Me? I want green tea and the feel of sticky clay in my hands.

As I approach, my chest is so tight I might burst. Damn, my mother. I’ll probably have a heart attack before I even get to the door.

And me without a pot brownie.

I steal a glance behind me where Matt has wandered and is now on the sidewalk in front of Gayle’s. I should tell him to go back, that his presence is suspicious, but—no. I have no idea what I’m walking into. From where he’s standing, if I scream, he’ll hear me.

Such a pleasant thought.

Before knocking, I press my ear to the door. Not a peep.

Maybe Mom didn’t come over?

Or maybe, at this very second, they’re carving up her body.

I bang a little harder than necessary, but whatever. If she’s being butchered someone is getting their ass kicked. I’m small, but mighty.

The door swings open and Gayle stands there while a blast of cool air from inside reaches me. For a moment, I’m stunned. Frozen on the doorstep. In all the conversations we’ve had about Gayle, the weird guy across the street, this is the closest I’ve come physically. It’s a good thing my legs won’t move. If they could, I’d take a giant step back. He studies me a second with dull brown eyes that hold…nothing. Just a bland stare that knocks me even more on edge. A weird energy wraps around me, sending a chill straight up my neck.

I have no idea if this guy is a bank robber, serial killer or what, but he hasn’t spoken a word and I already know I can’t stay anywhere near him.

The silence lingers until he finally holds his hands out and cranes his neck toward me. “Help you?”

“I’m, uh, Meg.” I point over my shoulder. “My parents live across the street. Is my mom here? She told my sister she was bringing over a coffee cake.”

“They’re in the kitchen. You people can’t keep dropping in. We like our privacy.”

Dick.

Head.

She brings him a damned cake and now he’s being rude? Really?

“Oh, o-kay. I’ll tell her not to be nice anymore.”

He fires a grunt my way—my set down not lost on him—and swivels, signaling me to follow.

I step inside then peek outside where Matt is still on the sidewalk. Gayle doesn’t seem too concerned about closing his front door, so I leave it open.

Just in case.

On my way down the short, wallpapered hallway, I pass a neat, sparsely decorated living room. There’s a plaid sofa with the requisite oak coffee table and a brown leather side chair with a glass cocktail table beside it. The whole package is a mishmash of material and textures.

The kitchen is equally odd. A farm table with two white, ladder back chairs and a set of mismatched chairs on the other side.

Ohmygod. They must be all garage sale finds and that completely wigs me out. Who knows where that furniture came from?

I shove my shoulders back, force myself to focus. Mental chaos is never good for me. It spins into a panic attack and that’s about the dead last thing I want right now.

“Meg,” Mom chirps, “what a lovely surprise. We’re just about to have cake.”

Marie stands at the counter, knife in hand. Prickles shoot up my neck. Does she really need a carving knife for a coffee cake?