Fault Lines: A dark, twisty mystery by Tsveti Nacheva

Author:Tsveti Nacheva [Nacheva, Tsveti]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: darkstroke books
Published: 2021-12-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

The next morning, my whole body hurts from tensing my muscles on the drive back. My left shoulder, the one I am lying on, is one with the mattress, flattened like a punctured ball. The arm attached to it is pinned underneath my torso, unresponsive and foreign. My spine screeches when I begin to unspool, so I use gravity to help me flip over. I lie on my back, staring at the popcorn ceiling, and wait for my circulation to pick up. There, this is what old age must feel like.

With my good arm, I flap around for my phone. As I drag it from under a pillow, it flashes me a full frontal in protest. I let my eyes adjust. I have missed breakfast, half a news cycle, and a handful of calls. So what! I needed the sleep.

I find a text from Carol saying she asked Nate to check what’s in the boxes she has stored in their attic. Carol is as dependable as one of my mom’s time-tested recipes. I trust her blindly; she always delivers. Today will be a good day, I can feel it.

By the time I make it downstairs, the sun is out in full force, and so is Michelle, the gabby receptionist. I pause by the front desk, so I can untangle a clump of headphone cord, and Michelle hits me with a complimentary weather update and tips on where to get good coffee. Coffee is exactly what I had in mind.

I end up at one of the places she recommended. It is an independent bookstore commandeered by some sorority to serve as their off-campus hangout. The café is entirely populated by students, most of them female, shaped like lingerie models. With my puffy face and messy hair, I stand out like a stray at a purebred exhibition.

Girls are huddled around tables, working in pairs or staring at their phones or giggling or reading; all long limbs and patrician necks. Nobody pays me much attention which is fine by me. I finish my latte and browse the shelves, not caring if I’m sprouting a foam mustache. On impulse, I buy a tote that I don’t need. It is green and says, I read dead people. Maybe I’ll give it to my assistant, Grace. She can carry her dance shoes in it.

There is a single-screen cinema on the bookstore’s second floor. The faded red carpet draped over the steps is cracked and spotty, like a smoker’s tongue. Creased indie posters line the walls. Dom would get a kick out of this place. Not that they’ll ever show anything he’s been in; he is blockbuster material. He digs the arty bohemian feel.

I get a brioche and a second latte to go and key the Gormans’ house address into my phone. The app offers me a few modes of transportation to choose from. My car is at the Gryphon. I don’t have a bike. Ridesharing is an option though the house is only a fifteen-minute walk away, leveled and loopy like a go-kart track.

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