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The Call
Reaper
May 9th
Seattle, Washington
The chime dragged me away from the motor I was inspecting.
Reaching back, I plucked my phone off the rubber-lined top of the rolling tool cabinet, tapped the screen, and said, “Talk to me.”
“Gabe?”
I knew by her voice something wasn’t right.
“Hang on.” I took the call off speaker, shut the hood of the GTO, switched hands, placed the cell to my ear, and asked, “What’s wrong, Tin?”
“Where are you?”
“At the shop.”
“Oh.”
“Do you need me? I was planning to be at the office in a little while.”
“I don’t, but someone else does.”
“Who?”
“I’m not supposed to be calling, but you need to know this,” she whispered.
“Know what?”
“A woman came by earlier asking to see you.”
“Did she say why she wanted to see me?”
“Just that she needed to speak to you.”
Tin went quiet, too quiet.
“Tinsley?”
“Yeah. Give me a sec.”
There was a shuffling, the sound of her footfalls…a door opening? “Her name was Lyric.”
All the blood drained from my face, and I slumped against the muscle car’s side panel. “Lyric?”
“That’s what Jesse called her.” A breath. “He told me to stay out of it, but I don’t fully know what it is. Even so, I’m following my instincts here because, from what I witnessed, she was desperate to see you.”
Hawkeye’s “Tinsley?” drifted to me. “Tell me you’re not out here in the foyer doing what I think you’re doing the moment Cowboy’s in a meeting?”
“I hate those freaking security cameras,” she grumbled, but I didn’t think she was speaking to me. That was confirmed when “Gotta go, Gabe” hit, then, “stop giving me that look, Nile. I had to tell him…” before the line went dead.
It took a minute or ten to regain my motor movements, but when I did, I made one call.
His “No,” was the greeting.
“Hawkeye, you’ve got two choices. Tell me where she is, or I come down there, and we discuss it with our fists.”
An expulsion of breath followed by silence came.
“All right,” I said, “I’ll see you soon.”
“Brother, Lyric is nothing but heartache.”
“Yeah, well, she’s my heartache. Where is she?”
“The Edgewater.”
I didn’t say thanks, goodbye, or kiss my ass; I just disconnected the phone, grabbed my suitcoat from the hook on the wall, tugged out my keys, yelled, “I’m taking off,” to my mechanic down in the oil pit, getting, “Okay, boss!” before I hopped in the Torino, and drove like a lunatic.
Exactly thirteen minutes later, I was striding across the walkway that would lead me straight to her.
Reaper
May 9th
Seattle, Washington
The chime dragged me away from the motor I was inspecting.
Reaching back, I plucked my phone off the rubber-lined top of the rolling tool cabinet, tapped the screen, and said, “Talk to me.”
“Gabe?”
I knew by her voice something wasn’t right.
“Hang on.” I took the call off speaker, shut the hood of the GTO, switched hands, placed the cell to my ear, and asked, “What’s wrong, Tin?”
“Where are you?”
“At the shop.”
“Oh.”
“Do you need me? I was planning to be at the office in a little while.”
“I don’t, but someone else does.”
“Who?”
“I’m not supposed to be calling, but you need to know this,” she whispered.
“Know what?”
“A woman came by earlier asking to see you.”
“Did she say why she wanted to see me?”
“Just that she needed to speak to you.”
Tin went quiet, too quiet.
“Tinsley?”
“Yeah. Give me a sec.”
There was a shuffling, the sound of her footfalls…a door opening? “Her name was Lyric.”
All the blood drained from my face, and I slumped against the muscle car’s side panel. “Lyric?”
“That’s what Jesse called her.” A breath. “He told me to stay out of it, but I don’t fully know what it is. Even so, I’m following my instincts here because, from what I witnessed, she was desperate to see you.”
Hawkeye’s “Tinsley?” drifted to me. “Tell me you’re not out here in the foyer doing what I think you’re doing the moment Cowboy’s in a meeting?”
“I hate those freaking security cameras,” she grumbled, but I didn’t think she was speaking to me. That was confirmed when “Gotta go, Gabe” hit, then, “stop giving me that look, Nile. I had to tell him…” before the line went dead.
It took a minute or ten to regain my motor movements, but when I did, I made one call.
His “No,” was the greeting.
“Hawkeye, you’ve got two choices. Tell me where she is, or I come down there, and we discuss it with our fists.”
An expulsion of breath followed by silence came.
“All right,” I said, “I’ll see you soon.”
“Brother, Lyric is nothing but heartache.”
“Yeah, well, she’s my heartache. Where is she?”
“The Edgewater.”
I didn’t say thanks, goodbye, or kiss my ass; I just disconnected the phone, grabbed my suitcoat from the hook on the wall, tugged out my keys, yelled, “I’m taking off,” to my mechanic down in the oil pit, getting, “Okay, boss!” before I hopped in the Torino, and drove like a lunatic.
Exactly thirteen minutes later, I was striding across the walkway that would lead me straight to her.