The Problem with Promises by Leigh Evans Read Free Book Online Page B

“The Chihuahua loved a halfling.” I shouldn’t have been able to follow that—that’s a lot of silent speak—but all those years of lip-synching to Donna Summer tracks had left their mark on Cordelia.
    Oh.
    I’d attributed Biggs’s lack of dates to his fashion choices—tonight’s shoelaces were red. It hadn’t occurred to me that he was nursing a broken heart. My memory stirred. “That’s for Becci!” he’d shouted before pulling the trigger on Stuart Scawens.
    I’d forgotten he’d said it until now—it was a detail that had been hazed over by bigger tragedies. But now, I felt a flicker of shame. I should have asked him about Becci.
    One day, I will.
    The door opened, and Harry walked in. He took in the scene, face carefully neutral. “So, what are the two of them going on about now?”
    “Life, liberty, and—” Cordelia paused for an eye roll that set her fake eyelashes fluttering. “Love with a capital L. Our two lovebirds seem to enjoy sparring with each other as much as they do making those bloody bedsprings squeak.”
    “It’s not the bed,” said Trowbridge. “It’s the chair.”
    Someone shoot me.
    “What did you do with Fatso?” I asked.
    Anu’s head turned as Harry said in his low rumble, “He’s hanging from a hook in the back of a refrigerated trunk that’s on its way to Montreal.” The pack’s second gave me a reproving head shake. “Now, Little Miss. I didn’t kill him. He’s mostly alive and trussed up like Big Bird. The driver said he’d put pedal to the metal until he’s over the provincial border. I told him to leave our friend somewhere inconvenient.”
    “Good,” said Trowbridge, his voice clipped.
    “Super,” I added, rubbing my eyes. They burned. With fatigue. Not at all because the little comet in Trowbridge’s baby blues was calling to my flare. I picked up the bag, opened the seal and took a whiff. To me, the contents smelled of Knox, blood, leather, sun potion, and … fudge. If we wanted to be specific about it, maple flavored.
    Trowbridge tossed Harry the bag. “Take a whiff of this and tell me if you can recognize the scent.” Harry sampled it, and shook his head before passing it to Cordelia. She didn’t have any better luck and passed it across the table. Biggs rubbed his nose before he took a delicate snort.
    “Well?” asked Trowbridge.
    Biggs put the bag down on the pine table and stared at it. Silently, he shook his head.
    “I hate thinking of a kid being around Knox,” I said.
    Trowbridge nodded, his eyes focused on the bottle of sun potion. Absently, he flattened his hand over the scar hidden beneath his T-shirt. His thumb moved, side to side it swept, following the rough ridges of the now-healed wound.

 
    Chapter Three
    Both of the witches had long, thick auburn hair. That’s where the obvious similarities ended. The older of the two was about Cordelia’s age and perhaps four inches shorter than Trowbridge. She had an air of command to her, possibly because she was on the hefty side and her girth spoke all on its own.
    Smart too, I thought, watching her size me up.
    The other witch was a little taller than me. Small-boned, thin. When she’d got out of the car, I’d noticed that she’d forgotten to do up at least three of the top buttons of her chic white blouse, and somehow the way she’d arranged her arms made the cleavage of her high firm breasts look like a line that needed to be traced with someone’s tongue.
    But with any luck, she’d age like her mother.
    “We’re not related,” said the older witch, regarding me with some amusement. “Folks see the red hair and they generally think Elizabeth and me are kin. We’re not.” She flicked a hard glance at the younger witch. “We just haven’t resolved who has the rights to Garnier’s Deep Auburn. Tell me, who do you think looks better in it?”
    I’m a liar. Part of being a successful one is knowing when to bring one out and when to shut the hell up. I did the