Sleep with the Lights On. Maggie Shayne

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СКАЧАТЬ just two and a half steps from me before extending my hand. Any farther, you looked like an idiot. Any closer... Any closer was too damn close. I liked three feet of space around me at all times. It was one of a whole collection of quirks I held dearly.

      “Last time I checked,” I said, pouring sugar into the words, using my “famous author” voice. “And you are?”

      “Oh, gosh, this is such a thrill!” She gripped my hand. Cool and small. She smelled like sunblock, sweat and sneakers. Tinny, nearly inaudible music wafted from somewhere near her neck, and I could hear her pulse beat behind her words. No, seriously, I could. I told you, I hear everything. My brain snapped an immediate mental photo. She was too thin, an exercise nut, five-one or so, probably blonde. Her earbuds were dangling, iPod still playing, heart still hammering from a recent run. She probably didn’t even hear it. Hearing loss due to cramming speakers into one’s ear holes and cranking the volume. Joggers were the worst offenders. Sighted people didn’t appreciate how valuable their hearing was.

      Also, she had a beaky little nose and bad teeth.

      Don’t ask. I have no freaking idea how I get my mental snapshots of people. I just do. I don’t know if they’re anywhere near accurate, either. Never bothered to ask anyone or feel any faces. (Give me a break, people, it’s just disgusting to go around pawing strangers like that.)

      And she’d been talking while I’d been sketching her on my brain easel. Sally something. Big fan. Read all my books. Changed her life. The usual.

      “Glad to hear my methods are working for you,” I said. “And it’s great to meet you, but I have—”

      “I’m so glad I came in to check on my missing poodle,” she said. “I think she was dog-napped. But I’m staying positive. You know, I used to lose my temper all the time,” she went on. “I’d fight with my husband, my teenage daughter—and don’t even get me started on my mother-in-law. But then I started writing your words on index cards and taping them all over my house.”

      “That’s really—” fucking pathetic “—nice to hear. But like I said, I—”

      “‘If you get up in the morning and stub your toe, go back to bed and start over,’” she quoted. “I love that one. Such a metaphor for everything in life, really. Oh, oh, and ‘When you’re spitting venom onto others, you’re only poisoning yourself.’ That’s one of my favorites.”

      The woman behind the counter snorted derisively and muttered, “Oughtta be droppin’ dead any minute now, then,” just loud enough for me to hear. If I had been the metaphorical cobra in my metaphorical affirmation, I would have spun around and spat a healthy dose of venom into her eye to keep her from costing me a reader.

      “Sally,” I said, struggling for patience. No, that’s not true at all. My patience was long gone. I was struggling to hang on to the illusion of it, though. “Like I said—” twice now “—it’s nice to meet you, but I actually have something important I need to do here.” This is a police station after all. I mean, do you really think I’m here for shits and giggles, lady?

      “Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry.” She put her hand on my shoulder. Familiar. Like we were friends now.

      I almost cringed. People think they can touch you when you’re blind. I have no idea why. I hear pregnant women complain about the same thing, but of course I’ve never seen it.

      “I hope everything’s all right. Not that I’m asking, of course.”

      Yes she was.

      “I’ll go.” Two steps, but then the parting shot. I was ready for it, even guessing which one it would be. “Remember, Rachel,” she called back, her overly happy tone making me restrain a gag. “‘What you be is what you see’!”

      She left as I tried to remember which of my books had contained that particular piece of crapola. Her sneakers squeaked as she trotted away, until the sound got lost amid the buzz of the drones.

      I turned back to the woman at the counter. Her image in my mind was short, hefty, with melon-sized boobs and long shiny ringlets.

      “Where were we?”

      “I believe you were about to threaten to kick my ass,” she said. “Or maybe you were gettin’ ready to dole out one of those Susie-sunshine lines you’re apparently known for.” She paused, leaned back in her chair—I heard the movement—and slurped coffee that smelled stale. “So are you famous or something? ’Cause I never heard of you.”

      I placed my hands flat on the tacky countertop and leaned forward. “My brother is missing. I reported it three days ago, and I haven’t heard one word from you people since.”

      “‘You people’?”

      “You cop people. I want action. I want my brother found. I at least want some indication that you’re looking for him. Can you give me that?”

      “I already gave you that. I told you, we’re doing everything we can. I’ll have an officer call you later in the day. I already have your number.”

      Oh, brilliant double entendre there. Apparently I was dealing with a genius.

      “Thanks a million.”

      I turned and waved my cane back and forth, half hoping I’d whack someone in the shins on my way out. But no. Apparently the bees were parting like the Red Sea. I was not amused that my identity had been revealed in the cop shop. My agent would lop off my head for being a bitch in public at all, much less being recognized while I was at it.

      What the hell did I care? I’d deny it. My legions of followers would believe me. I mean, as long as it didn’t happen too often or in front of someone’s cell-cam and wind up on YouTube, I was golden. And even if it did, they’d forgive me for losing it if I let them know why.

      My brother was missing, for God’s sake. A saint would be on her last nerve.

      I tapped across the room and out the door, feeling the space around me widen as I moved through it. I turned left down the hall to the main entrance. Lots of doors there. I picked the quietest one and went through it and then down the broad stone steps to the sidewalk. I intended to cross the street to the coffee shop, grab a Mucho-Mocha with extra caffeine, and phone my assistant to come and pick my ass up. My mind wasn’t on what I was doing, though. I was flashing back to the last time I’d seen anything.

      It had been Tommy’s face.

      I was twelve and knew I was going blind. I had a corneal dystrophy, a rare one. At that point I could still see, but it was pretty bad. Blurry, dull. Worse and worse. I’d been having a nightmare, dreamed of being completely blind, and woke up screaming.

      It was Tommy who came to my bedroom, sat on the edge of my mattress, hugged me close, told me it was all gonna be okay. That he’d be with me, no matter what. And he was, before the addictions took him away. He went from coke to crack, from the oxy-twins—contin and codone—to heroin, his standards lowering with his resources, until he was broke and homeless and taking anything he could find that was stronger than aspirin. Anyway, before all that, when he was a freshly showered fourteen-year-old kid with a future, he hugged me, conceded to my demand that he leave the light on and told me stories until I fell back asleep.

      When I woke up, I thought he’d lied to me. I thought he’d turned the light off after СКАЧАТЬ