First Night. Debra Webb

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      The hesitation lasted at least half a minute. She had almost decided he wasn’t going to comply. Finally he stood. As he stumbled through the passage he’d written, he glanced up at her periodically. It wasn’t imperative that she catch every word, only that she could see the pacing and flow of how he formed the sentences.

      Slow. Halting. As if he had a difficult time reading his own words aloud.

      When he’d finished, she held out her hand for the notebook. He placed it in her outstretched palm, his expression full of guilt. He was embarrassed that he couldn’t read smoothly. She glanced over what he’d written. His handwriting was bold and neat. But one thing was glaringly apparent. He’d misspelled five words. Two of those words were not only simple but used several times throughout the passage. In each instance, the two words were misspelled differently.

      Merri pulled the pages, as well as the three clean ones after the last one, from the notebook, folded and placed them in her purse. She understood Brandon’s situation now. As she pushed to her feet, she glanced around the compact living room once more. She would ask him about it…eventually, but not now.

      “Why don’t you shower and change,” she suggested, “and we’ll go have coffee some place neutral and try to figure out what Kick was telling you with these seemingly disconnected phrases.”

      Brandon tugged at the T-shirt he wore, then stood. “You’ll…”

      He turned away from her as he spoke. But the slumped shoulders told her exactly what he was worried about. “Don’t worry. I’ll do all I can to help you figure this out, Brandon.”

      He turned back to her then. “You’re sure you’re not going to slip out while I’m in the shower?”

      What she’d missed was him asking if she would still be here. Made sense in light of the desperation choking his reason and logic. “I won’t be going anywhere until we determine how to move forward with proving your innocence. That’s a guarantee.”

      He held her gaze a moment longer. The heavy defeat that had weighed down his shoulders had given way to glittering fear in those dark eyes. Something shifted deep in her chest. She’d only met this guy and already she wanted desperately to help him. There was more here than met the eye, so to speak. Brandon Thomas wouldn’t have a chance with the police. If they couldn’t find anyone else to hang this one on, they would railroad Brandon or push the case aside.

      That he trusted her enough to shower, leaving her to do as she pleased, surprised her and was likely indicative of his desperation. She understood it far better than she wanted to admit.

      When the water was going in the bathroom, she carefully went over the apartment once more. Using a pen from her purse, she flipped through files and the desk Rolodex. A framed photograph of Brandon and his roommate showed that the two were about the same age. Both good-looking. Kick’s framed degree in journalism decorated the otherwise stark wall above the desk. If Brandon had a degree, he wasn’t sporting any indication of the accomplishment. The drawing desk appeared to be where he did his work. After snooping around she decided he was an architect of some sort.

      In the deceased’s bedroom, she found several family snapshots in the top drawer of the nightstand. Golf clubs on the bed amid the rest of the items that had been taken from the closet. Kick was not only proud of his accomplishments, he had pricey taste in attire, as well. Designer labels were stamped on virtually all of his sizable wardrobe.

      Brandon’s bedroom revealed quite the opposite. No family connections that she found. Not a single photo. His closet had apparently been as sparsely furnished as the rest of the apartment. He defined the phrase living simply.

      It wasn’t until she went through the kitchen a second time that she found the shared bulletin board. On the back side of an upper cabinet door was a makeshift bulletin board with numerous handwritten telephone numbers, most belonging to women. Not Brandon’s writing. Something else Kick appeared to have plenty of—female attention. Or, at least, their numbers.

      Only three names were male, also evidently in Kick’s handwriting. Merri made a note of the male names and numbers on one of the sheets she’d tucked into her purse. Though she doubted he would keep the name of the contact Brandon had seen posted in such a way.

      The cupboards were bare, as she’d expected. Mismatched dishware and flatware. The dishwasher held nothing but a cup and one small plate; the rest of the soiled eating utensils were in the sink. Microwave and oven were empty. Nothing beneath the stovetop burners. The range in Kick’s puzzle definitely wasn’t the one in their apartment. Not that she’d expected it would be, but she’d given it a look just the same. She had to cover all bases.

      A window above the sink stared directly at another window some twenty feet across a side alley. The neighboring apartment was dark. She wondered briefly if Brandon ever came face-to-face with his neighbor via this window. A woman would have a shade over that window. She shook her head and leaned down to check the lower-level cabinets.

      The cabinet beneath the sink held a few cleaning supplies but nothing else of interest.

      The final place she inspected was what at first appeared to be a pantry-type closet but was, in fact, a laundry closet complete with a stackable appliances set. A white button-down shirt had dried in the washer. She wondered why the techs hadn’t taken it. As difficult as it had been to see in the white laundry tub, if she’d noticed it, the techs should have. She lifted the stiff material to her face and sniffed. The pungent smell of bleach had permeated the fabric. She shook out the shirt and looked it over, couldn’t see any trace of stains.

      Merri dropped the shirt back into the washer and leaned forward to see if she could spot anything on either side of the stacked appliances. Nothing but dust bunnies and an old newspaper.

      Closing the door, she turned back to the kitchen at large. Her breath trapped in her lungs. Clean shaven, Brandon stood in the doorway. He wore a blue sweater over a white T-shirt, well-worn jeans and the only pair of sneakers she had seen in his room.

      “Are you okay?” he asked.

      The realization that he’d likely spoken to her once or twice without her reacting was no doubt the reason for the question.

      “Is that your shirt?” If she skirted the question smoothly enough he might leave it alone. “The one in the washer?”

      He shook his head. “Kick’s.”

      Maybe Kick just liked his whites extra white. That would certainly explain the bleach.

      “You ready?” she encouraged, manufacturing a smile of assurance.

      “Sure.” He glanced around the kitchen as if he’d just now considered that she had likely looked at everything, hoping to find clues.

      Would he worry that she’d found some secret he’d kept? If he was innocent, he had no need to worry. She had already made a preliminary judgment: innocent. That assessment remained subject to change, but she read people fairly well. She picked up no vibes whatsoever that Brandon was the type to hurt another human in this manner. Still, he was guarded.

      The hint of suspicion that lingered in his eyes didn’t bother her that much. She figured it was as much to do with her lack of a response when he’d entered the room as anything.

      “Don’t forget your coat.” She walked past him and made СКАЧАТЬ