Bloodstone (29 page)

I stood for a second, hoping my unemployment check was in there and tried to read the vibes. This was a game I always played with myself—a small psychic exercise to keep my ‘
sight’
sharp. But I didn’t feel any sense of urgency or hope. Just a whopping dose of dread.

Great. So my guess was no check, but at least one major bill I’d have to pay. I unlocked the box and quickly sorted through the mail. Sure enough—a sale flyer from the Crooked Pantry, a birthday card from a temp agency and a pink notice from the Dept. of Water and Power.

Good thing I had plenty of candles to fall back on. And a swimming pool. Maybe I could shower over the drain in the courtyard, with the garden hose. People washed their dogs there all the time. And my shampoo was considerably less toxic than flea dip.

Tucked into the back of the mailbox was a reminder about the rent. At least that was one thing I didn’t need to worry about. Lenny knew I was good for it. How much longer I’d be able to pay the rent though. . . That thought made me queasy.

Suddenly, a wave of panic hit my stomach and clenched it hard. Forget crawling, gooseflesh positively raced across my arms. I struggled to breathe. Whatever was wrong, it all seemed to be coming from the direction of my apartment.

I dropped my mail into the grocery bag and peeked around the corner of the mail stand. Behind the screen door, my front door was wide open.

Shit!
I ducked back behind the mailboxes and fumbled through my purse for my cell phone.

I flipped open the phone and hit 9-1-1.

Busy.

I hung up and tried again.

Still busy.

Bloody hell. No wonder the crime rate was so high in Los Angeles. I didn’t know what the non-emergency number was, so I decided to call my home phone and warn the intruder to clear out.

If I was lucky, it would just be a break-in. A simple case of anonymous robbery. I’d warn them that I was on my way home and they’d hit the road with their haul.

But as I punched in the first three digits, the phone beeped, the battery icon blinked and the screen went black.

Damn it.
I shoved the phone back into my purse and took another look at my apartment. The living room lights had been turned on against the gathering dusk. But why would robbers turn on the lights? Didn’t that negate the whole idea of stealth?

I crept closer. That’s when I saw Mrs. Lasio, the new building manager, planted like a bull in my living room.

Great. Just freaking great. Why did it have to be her? Why couldn’t it have been some whacked-out crack-head carting off my TV?

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Copyright 2011, Barbra Annino,
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