Page 13 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

Now Genni stabs the oven mitts in our direction.

“You. Are. Late.”

The glare is for Daryl, thank heavens. I notice Petunia has taken up position way back, one claw in the kitchen, where she’s possibly anticipating dinner, the rest of her as far away from Genni as she can get.

The kitchen smells unbelievable. Like a fantasy of homecooked perfection, except I have no idea what that might be, having been raised on a steady diet of frozen pizzas haphazardly warmed by my alcoholic father.

Genni turns toward me in a whirl of black-and-white flounces. “Genni, she, her,” Genni declares, with just the right note of drama to justify Daryl’s spelling of the name.

“Frankie,” I manage.

Genni remains expectant.

“She, her,” I provide. “Though, to be fair…” I take in my less than impressive appearance.

And not just my stained T-shirt and unisex olive-green cargo pants.

I wear my long brown hair habitually scraped back into a ponytail, and I haven’t attempted makeup for years.

In contrast, Genni’s face is a flawless study of arched brows, thick lashes, and ruby-red lips.

“You are Bart’s latest?” she wants to know.

I glance over at Daryl for support. He’s already taken a seat at the round kitchen table, unfolding a black linen napkin and smoothing it over his lap.

“Bart’s known for his Island of Misfit Toys,” Daryl supplies. Then to Genni: “Frankie’s the designated lizard-slash-snake sitter for the month. Go easy on her. She’s not a herper.”

Genni regards me more thoughtfully. “Just passing through or looking for a fresh start?”

“Not the staying kind.” As if to prove me wrong, my fingers find the outline of my cell phone in my pants pocket. I refuse to take it out, check for any missed calls. I will not be that weak.

“How long have you been in Tucson?” I ask Genni.

“Twelve years, darling. The heat’s a real bitch, but it’ll grow on you. Now: feed the lizard, then meat loaf for the humans!”

Sounds like an amazing idea, if only I knew how to dish up salad for an iguana.

First up, I gamely inspect the ginormous stainless-steel fridge, which appears to hold every kind of energy drink ever made, including a few that I’m pretty sure have been outlawed in most states.

In a lower bin, I discover a stash of three labeled containers.

“Petunia, Dinner 1” seems like a good bet.

I remove the lid to discover a salad. Really.

Truly. Rough-cut lettuce, carrots, cucumbers, broccoli, peppers, green beans, and squash, sprinkled with a white vitamin powder.

Frankly, it looks better than most salads I’ve eaten lately.

I glance around the immense kitchen for anything that might say, “Feed Petunia Here.” I don’t spot so much as a dog bowl.

Genni sighs heavily. “Her private suite…”

“The enclosure. Got it. Umm…” Petunia is currently planted in the middle of the carpeted corridor leading to the reptile wing of the house. More important, her gaze is now locked on the container in my hands, her tail flicking side to side.

I glance at Genni.

“I don’t do cold-blooded,” she states.

Now, why hadn’t I thought of saying that?

Clutching the container in hand, I venture closer.

Petunia doesn’t move. I’m now right in front of her, holding out the salad like a peace offering.

She still doesn’t flinch. I take the first little step to pass her.

Then, when she doesn’t latch on to my ankle, I bolt to her private room, where I spy a stainless-steel bowl and throw the salad in it.

Just in time for Petunia to come scurrying past me in a blur of green limbs and swishing tail.

She heads straight for dinner. I take the hint and scamper back to the kitchen, where Genni is pulling a perfectly shaped loaf of ground meat from the oven, topped with a stripe of red sauce and surrounded by a medley of roasted potatoes.

“Dinner is served.”

AFTERWARD, I OFFER to do the dishes, as much by habit as by training.

But Genni is adamant—domestic chores are her gig; I should save myself for the snakes.

Which, according to the care instructions that magically appear on my phone, should be fed tomorrow night.

All of them. Oh goodie. The next text reminds me not to forget Petunia’s nightly massage and TV time.

Sure. I’ll get right on that.

Daryl excuses himself the moment he’s done eating. Given the number of times he’s glanced at his watch, I’m guessing some kind of pressing engagement. Ballroom dancing? Booty call? Daryl isn’t one to volunteer such details.

Following Bart’s directions, I return to Petunia’s room. It takes me a moment to spy her tucked under a collection of leafy branches in a corner, one golden eye peering out.

“Um, wanna watch TV?” Then, as I genuinely consider the matter: “Do you have a favorite show? Wait, I’m being stupid.

It’s The Simpsons , isn’t it? Yeah, never mind, shoulda known.

Okay, I don’t know you, you don’t know me, so I think we can both agree this is awkward.

But your loving and devoted human seems to think we’re perfect for each other.

So, um, I’m going to head to the family room.

Assuming I can find it. Then I’ll turn on the TV.

And then, well, suit yourself, okay? You show up, you show up.

If not, no harm, no foul. I’ll still sleep well tonight. ”

Petunia continues to regard me with one unblinking golden eye.

I sigh heavily, turn on my heel, and return to the kitchen, where Genni is harmonizing with the crickets as if they’re one big happy family/chorus group.

I do my best to remember Daryl’s brief tour of the house and find myself in a yawning room dominated by a TV larger than most automobiles and positioned in front of a U-shaped sofa big enough to hold a football team. This must be the place.

On cue, my phone buzzes. Remote is on the charger on the table. Hit power button up top.

I nod, identify the black charger on the sofa table and then…

Wait a minute, how did he know? Cameras.

Has to be. Whiz kid gamer has his house wired.

And is watching me right now, because he’s actually not stupid enough to trust a perfect stranger with the care and feeding of his pets.

I look around, till I spy the lens tucked halfway up the stone fireplace.

I give it a little wave. Then stick out my tongue.

Nice, Bart texts me.

Little shit. With a sigh, I work the remote.

The flat-screen TV graciously offers me a collection of favorite shows.

Sure enough, The Simpsons tops the list. I hit play just in time for the distinctive sound of clicking claws and rustling tail.

Petunia has entered the room. She scrabbles inelegantly across the tile floor, smooths out when she hits the tightly woven area rug.

Which probably explains why there are so many carpet remnants around the place.

I take a seat. Stare at bright animated characters bouncing around a screen so huge baby Maggie is bigger than my entire head.

And then…

I glance at my phone. I wish for contact from someone I told not to contact me.

I wish for time to move backward. I wish I didn’t still remember the smell of his skin, the feel of his arms, the whisper of his voice.

“Do what you gotta do, Frankie. I would never want you to be anyone less than who you truly are.”

Because that’s what happens when you let someone in. When you let them get to know you that well. They learn who you are. And they learn who you are not.

Even when you wish it were different.

More rustling. Petunia appears at the far end of the sofa, now perched on top of the arm.

She makes no move to advance. I make no move to draw closer.

Eventually, I sense a small shift in her posture as she settles in.

On the TV, Lisa Simpson plays her saxophone.

Petunia watches from one side of the couch, and I stare from the other. Two life-forms, alone together, which feels like the only way I know how to live anymore.

Later, she follows me back to her private room, where I lock her in for the night, per instructions.

Then, because I just can’t help myself, I venture to the snake room, easing open the door, peering in the darkened interior.

No immediate sign of movement, sounds of alarm.

I pull on the headlamp with its night-friendly red beam.

I make out slender, twelve-inch baby pythons slithering along the sides of one enclosure, some sliding over others, some dotting the bottom in tight little balls.

On the farthest wall, pale yellow Marge is a stack of thick coils, her narrow head now lifting up from the pile. She stares at me expectantly, tongue forking.

Nothing but an illogical fear, Bart said. No problem conquering your greatest terror, he promised.

I replace the headlamp on the hook, then carefully shut and lock the door, testing the handle several times for certainty.

I bolt for the safety of the guesthouse.

I DON’T DREAM of snakes. At this stage of my life, my nightmares are much more specific.

The first love of my life, holding his bleeding abdomen, a look of surprise on his face.

Except then it’s some young man I barely know, and we’re in a back alley, his head on my lap as he gasps desperately for air, his dark gaze still angry, still defiant, still determined to live.

Until it isn’t.

Now I’m running through the rain with Bigfoot hot on my heels. Or maybe it’s a coconut crab with giant, snapping claws. I clamber up the steps of a darkened cabin, seeking shelter. Except there’s the severed head, with its sightless eyes and still-screaming mouth.

I don’t look away. I know this head too well. I know what will happen next, as I place my finger against those bloody lips and stare deep into milky-white eyes.

“Shhh,” I remind the dead man. Always remind the dead man. “You must be quiet. She’s still out there. She’s…”

The snapping of a twig directly behind me. Myself, twisting around in the howling storm.

Catching the silvery gleam of the machete as it arcs up, up, up.

She’s laughing. Now. Then. Now again.

The machete falls.

But it is someone else who screams in agony.

I BOLT AWAKE just in time to catch a faint musical chime building to a larger, louder crescendo.

My phone, ringing. I fumble around the top of the nightstand for the squawking device, registering the first hint of daylight beyond my window.

No more raging storms. No more dying men or murderous females.

Thank God for morning.

I snatch up my cell, suddenly hopeful.

But the number isn’t from Washington. According to my caller ID, it’s Aliah.

And it’s way too early for a social call.

I hit connect in time to hear her rushing demand: “Turn on the TV. Right now. The local news, you need to see this!”

“What?” I drag myself out of bed, feeling like I’ve drowned in a massive sea of mattress. It takes me a minute to find the remote, hit power.

“It’s Sabera,” Aliah rattles out. “She’s on TV!”

“The police found her?”

“No! They’re showing a video of her. The two men killed with a hammer…”

I have a vague memory of hearing about that yesterday.

“They have footage of a woman walking away, her face covered by a headscarf. I know that scarf; I gave it to her as a welcome present. The woman in the video is Sabera. And she’s exiting a murder scene!”