Painting With Fire by K. B. Jensen Read Free Book Online Page B

odd.”
    “Maybe he’s dropped out, gotten in with the wrong crowd, or he’s just playing videogames all day,” Tom said, sipping up a spoonful of tomato soup.
    “You sound just like Doris,” she said. “Racist old bat.”
    “But I’m not,” he said, pushing the empty bowl away from him. “I’m more like Kevin. I was a dumb kid once, you know. I fell in with the wrong crowd once.”
    “Oh really, what did you do?” She raised an eyebrow.
    “Not telling,” he said. “You know I don’t like to talk about it. You’ll just have to move on to harassing the next neighbor.”
    Claudia got an easy excuse to talk with Adam Washington, in the form of stray mail. She had never talked to the man, only knew him as a label on a mailbox in an entryway before this. She had seen him scurrying from his car in the parking lot into his home carrying groceries a few times, but never got a hello out of the tall, gaunt man. Framed by a receding hairline, his long, dark face was always contorted like he’d been sucking on a lemon. He always stared away from anyone that crossed his path.
    Claudia was relieved to have an excuse to talk to him. It was hard to start a conversation with someone who avoided any eye contact.
    It wasn’t unusual for the mail to be jumbled up in the building. About half of the letters in her mailbox didn’t belong to her. Claudia was constantly reshuffling the letters, putting them on the banister in the hallway or slipping them under the appropriate doors. Once she’d gotten a half-opened paycheck that wasn’t even hers.
    “You gotta love the Chicago postal service,” she mumbled to herself. “Consistently ranked worst in the nation.”
    Sure, she could slide the letter under his door, but it was from a law office and marked urgent. It would be better to make sure he got it right away. She told herself it was a good reason.
    Feeling like some kind of sick stalker, she knocked once in the morning, once in the afternoon and once in the evening, before A. Washington’s door finally swung open. Every time she tried, the muscles in her stomach seemed to tighten. She was nervous about going into a strange man’s home, especially considering he was a possible murder suspect whose wife they hadn’t seen for a while.
    With the door open, the smell was overwhelming. She thought Doris’ place was bad. But here garbage overflowed from the trashcan in the kitchen to the countertops. Tiny gnats circled overhead. A pot of baked beans boiled on the stovetop. He wore a dirty white T-shirt with armpit and collar stains and a pair of flannel pants. A half-empty bottle of rum sat on his kitchen table.
    Still standing in the hallway, she handed him the letter and told him she just got it that morning. Grubby hands quickly shredded open the envelope and wet, brown eyes scanned the w ords. Then he sat down defeated on a chair.
    “Oh G od,” he said, his shoulders hunching forward in a deep slouch.
    Ok, so this was an awkward situation, she thought. But Tom knew where she was, she told herself. Tom knows where I am. I have nothing to fear from this broken man.
    “Sorry.” He wiped his eyes and then leapt to his feet. “Oh shit.”
    The beans were burning on the stove and pouring over the metal edges, like a frothy army of bloated ants at some kind of sick picnic. The nutty burnt smoke stung Claudia’s nose.
    “Now, I don’t even have anything for dinner,” he said, crying.
    When Claudia got back to their apartment, Tom rolled his eyes in the kitchen.
    “I can’t believe you invited him over for dinner,” he said quietly.
    “You know, it’s been years since anyone came over for dinner.” Claudia shrugged and gave him a small smile. “Might be fun. Plus it seems like the civilized thing to do. He’s going through some rough times.”
    “Most civilized people would rather eat at a restaurant,” Tom said. He sliced through a head of lettuce with a large knife.
    “Not exactly fiscally responsible for