Wrong Place, Right Time Read online

  Lucky shrugs and then turns to enter the code. I’m at the bottom of the stairs when the big door begins to slide open. I’ll admit, there’s a little piece of me fearing that there’s going to be some bad guy with a machine gun standing outside, but when the only thing that greets me is the sultry night smelling of the Mississippi River, I relax. I think I’ve had more adrenaline pumping through my veins today than I have in the past year. I feel like I’m high. No wonder I’m having these ridiculous thoughts about men and animals and seahorses.

  “Be safe,” Dev says from somewhere behind me.

  “Yeah, okay.” He doesn’t see me rolling my eyes. These people are crazy. Of course I’m going to be safe. All I’m doing is getting into my car, driving home, and taking a bath. That’s it. Oh, and I’m also going to drink an entire bottle of wine by myself. And then if I’m lucky, I’ll find a nice chick flick to watch on television, pop some popcorn, eat a couple scoops of ice cream, and fall asleep on the couch. I never get to do that stuff when my kids are around. Embracing the couch potato lifestyle, that’s what I’m all about. Ice cream addicts, unite!

  This is my chance to live like I’m single again. Like I have no responsibilities and calories don’t matter. I can’t believe I almost blew it by working on my day off. Ha! What nuttery is this? I can go home right now and pretend that I’m fresh out of college again and I have the entire world as my oyster in front of me, and that there’s a man out there who’s both a great husband and a great father just waiting to sweep me off my feet, look me in the eyes, and say: “Jenny, do you know how amazing you are? You’re funny, you’re intelligent, you’re adventurous . . .”

  Shit. It’s Dev’s voice that I hear echoing in my head, and I almost start crying when I realize that it’s not me who’s being described; it’s my sister. Some girls have all the luck.

  I use my key fob to open my car door and get inside. My car starts up immediately, and the climate control blasts me in the face, hot humid air that makes my future warm bath start to feel like a really bad idea. Sweating in the bathtub suuuucks. The bath is now officially out, which makes me want to punch something. What more could possibly go wrong today?

  I drive away, refusing to look in my rearview at the warehouse—the evil place that stole my sister and my bath away from me. The more I think about those people in there and what they do, and what my sister is wrapped up in, the sadder I get. Two miles away from the port, I burst into tears.

  I cry almost all the way home, and I don’t even know what the damn tears are for. Are they for May? Are they for me? Are they for my past mistakes, or the future I’ll never have? Maybe they’re for all of the above. I obviously need to get my head examined, because shit is seriously messed up in there. There’s not enough ice cream in all of New Orleans to fix this.

  I’m not sure how I got home. My brain took over and put the driver-me on autopilot. I remember leaving the warehouse and then pulling into my neighborhood. I hope I didn’t run anyone over in my daze.

  After parking my car in the driveway, I walk into my house. I’m so exhausted, I go straight upstairs to my room and flop down onto my stomach on my bed. Not a single thought passes through my mind before I’m sound asleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A vague dinging sound coming from somewhere in my house penetrates the sleep-fog filling my brain. In my half-dream state, I imagine that I have something cooking in the microwave, and it’s time for me to take the food out. Another ding comes, louder this time, or so it seems. Apparently, my microwave has a mind of its own. It’s nagging me: Come get your food, woman!

  As I become more fully awake, I realize it’s not my microwave talking to me; it’s my telephone. Someone is texting me. I groan, knowing who woke me up, regretting that I have the hearing of a mother with small children. My shit is bionic.

  “Go away, May!”

  I grab one of my pillows and push it over my face. I could happily fall back to sleep under here, except for the fact that my breath is totally rank. Damn . . . roadkill breath? How did that happen? Then I remember the jambalaya. “Ew.” I throw my pillow off the bed, telling myself I’ll wash the pillowcase later. I’m pretty sure I drooled on it with my jambalaya stink-breath. Double ew.

  I’m not going to answer that text, but now I’m too wide awake to go back to sleep. I roll out of bed and shuffle into my bathroom, too exhausted mentally to actually lift my feet more than a few millimeters off the carpet. Once there, I stare into the mirror at the horror show that is my face.

  My makeup has smeared from my eyes down to my jaw. I’m surprised I didn’t cause any car accidents on my way home looking like this. Anyone seeing this face would have thought I was a zombie after their brains. My hair has a big knot in the back of it, and the left side of my ’do is pressed in like it’s been glued in place.

  “Beaauuuutiful. Gorgeous!” I put my hands on my cheeks and push them in, puckering the whole front of my face up for a few seconds. It’s not an improvement.

  When Miles announced that he no longer loved me, and that he was leaving me with three little kids to start his new life alone, I did plenty of crying, and I smeared lots and lots of makeup down my face in the process. It’s been a year now, so I was kind of thinking I was over having random breakdowns in the middle of the day, vomiting for no reason at inopportune times, and binge-eating massive amounts of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. But apparently not. Apparently I still have some unresolved issues to work through. Imagine that.

  My phone dings again. I remember where I left it now; it’s at the bottom of the stairs in my purse.

  I should probably brush my teeth, remove my makeup, and do something with my hair, but what’s the point? The kids are gone, I have no life outside of being their mother, and my sister’s going to hang out with the Bourbon Street Buttheads all weekend, so I don’t have to worry about her dropping by. She doesn’t have time for me anymore. She’s too busy with her new, stupid job.

  I scowl just thinking about it. Now I look like an angry zombie. I hiss at my reflection.

  I could go shopping, even though it’s getting pretty late, but I really don’t have a whole lot of discretionary income to splurge on myself. I hate that I got teased today, that I almost had a gift certificate from the mall in my hot little hands and five hundred extra bucks to spend. That’s not something that happens to me very often. I’m lucky if I get child support checks on time, and my boss doesn’t believe in bonuses.

  A fleeting thought dances across my mind. I could do freelance work. It doesn’t have to be at the warehouse; it could be anywhere. I could go online to one of those freelancer sites and sign up. And I wouldn’t have to actually take any jobs; I could just use it to see what’s out there. I’ve been saying for years I want to do it, but I’ve always been too busy with the kids. Too worried about the risk. A single mom can’t afford to go without a paycheck, something a freelancer has to do sometimes. And freelancing while also working another job means missing out on time with my kids, which is definitely not an option, especially with an ex like Miles who never picks up the slack. My watch says I have over thirty hours left before they’re back. That’s enough time to start the process . . .

  My heart goes nuts at the very idea. Too much risk. Forget about it. Just keep your nose to the grindstone, Jenny.

  Knowing I’m not in a position to flip my world upside down by starting a new job, I try to imagine how I could jazz things up a bit. I chew my lip as I think about it. I don’t have to change my work life. I could just . . . try to get out more. I could even join one of those online dating sites. Find a mate. Or just go out for coffee with a guy. Start slow. Get dressed up and feel pretty for a change.

  I look at myself in the mirror again and laugh. “Yeah, right. Go ahead, Jenny, take a selfie. Put that zombie look up on your website profile and see how many date requests you get.” Damn. The way I look right now, there’s not a single man in all of Louisiana who’d want to have coffee with me. Not even the guy
s out in the bayou missing half their teeth who catch catfish by letting them swallow their arms whole. Noodling, they call it. I couldn’t even get a date with a noodler, that’s how bad off I am right now.

  I stick my tongue out at myself and then turn around to leave the bathroom, flicking the light off as I go. I walk down the stairs and ignore my purse and the phone inside it, making a beeline for my tiny home office to the left of the front door. I’m just going to check and see what’s on the freelancer sites. No big deal. No risk in looking, right? I’m not two steps into the room when I realize my problem. My big, fat mistake.

  “Goddammit!” I turn and rush back to my purse, throwing it open, all the while knowing what I’m going to find inside: nothing.

  I close my eyes and try to retrace in my mind the steps I took after I left the panic room. Did I take my laptop with me? I remember grabbing my purse, but I don’t remember taking the computer. And I don’t remember putting it in my car, and I don’t remember setting it down here inside the house anywhere. Dammit, dammit, double dammit!

  Just in case my rearview memory is wrong, I grab my keys and run outside. The neighbors have seen me looking pretty rough over the past year, so I’m not worried about any of them viewing my latest zombie chic look. Let ’em judge.

  I press my face against the driver’s window and scan the inside of my car. All I see is the random garbage that always floats around the vehicle that acts as a taxi for three little kids.

  I open the rear door anyway, trying not to let the dread overtake me, and climb into the backseat. Looking around, I mumble angrily to myself. “Come on, you bastard. Be in here. Be in here!” Crap is flying everywhere as I toss the entire backseat area. I’ve almost managed to convince myself that my laptop is here, buried under something. It has to be.

  I find three random shoes that don’t match, two fast-food meal boxes with empty wrappers inside, about a hundred petrified French fries scattered all over, and a rotten apple core shoved in the crack between two seats. I’m so disgusted with my life, I can’t even comprehend it right now. How did I get to this place? Fall so far? I’m a crazy zombie wading through the remnants of at least five horrible meal choices for children who deserve much better than the mess I’ve become.

  I leave the car, slamming the door in my anger, and march back up the front steps. I cannot believe that I forgot my computer at the warehouse. My computer is my life! I left there in such a huff—how am I going to go back and be cool about retrieving it? They’re going to think I left it there on purpose. They’re going to think I’m coming back to beg for that freelance job. Just the very idea makes me so angry I could spit. So I do, right there on my bushes. Twice.

  Once inside the house, I take several long, deep breaths in an effort to calm myself. I’m obviously overreacting as a result of being in not-really danger today. Being trapped in a panic room has to leave scars, even though there was nothing technically wrong, right? But I can move past it. Nothing happened. I’m safe. Hell, it was probably that idiot driving the forklift who banged into their door, and they’re all so paranoid over there, they think it was some gangster coming to mow them down with an AK-47.

  Whatever. I’m not going back there. May has to bring me my computer. And she’s going to have to bring it right now, because I need it. Maybe I’m going to join a dating site. Maybe I’m going to find some freelance work. Whatever. I can’t do any of it without the computer. And it’s her fault I left it there, so she has to fix this.

  I dig around in my purse until I find my phone. There are three messages from May, all of them showing concern and asking me how I’m doing.

  My fingers blaze out a response.

  Me: I’m fine. Forgot my computer at the warehouse. Please bring it to me right away. It’s in the panic room.

  I grind my teeth as I stare at the phone and wait for a response. The seconds tick by. I start tapping my toe with impatience. She was in an all-fired hurry to reach me just five minutes ago, waking me up out of a sound sleep on my weekend off, and now she’s disappeared. Perfect. So, so perfect for my life right now.

  May: Okay. No prob. B there soon.

  My jaw goes off-kilter as I read the message several times. I’m suspicious. My sister is never this short and sweet about anything. I can’t decide if I’m just being paranoid, if this is some kind of trick, or if Dev was completely right about my sister and he actually does know her better than I do.

  Just the thought of that makes me want to throw my phone across the room, but I don’t have any extra cash, and I don’t have the best luck with these stupid devices, so I don’t. Instead, I toss it back into my purse and wander down the hallway to the kitchen. I’m on a mission.

  I have a new plan now. I’m going to force May to stay here in this house, have two or three glasses of wine with me, and explain exactly what the hell she’s doing working for those bozos and hooking up with that guy Ozzie. I mean, come on . . . Apparently they’re magnets for criminal activity. It’s dangerous over there, and she’s a wedding photographer, for chrissake. She doesn’t need to run around with a pack of police wannabes just because it pays well and has good benefits. She was doing just fine before. And she might not have any children of her own, but she’s an aunt to my three babies, and that bears some responsibility. She needs to take better care of her own personal safety. How would I be able to tell Sophie that her favorite aunt, the one she plans to run away to when she turns sixteen, is dead? No. No, no, no, no, no. This is not happening. I have to fix this.

  Satisfied that I have a sound plan and excellent reasons for executing it, I pull out two glasses and make sure that I have a nice fat bottle of wine chilling in the fridge for when she arrives. The thought passes through my mind that I should go over to the mirror and try to fix my face, but then I decide it’s probably better if she sees me totally messed up like this. I need to twang those heartstrings of hers, and Dev was right about one thing: May does have a really big heart.

  As soon as she sees how much this is upsetting me and how worried I am, she’ll be in the right frame of mind to listen to reason. I’m going to pull out all the stops for this one. I feel like I’m actually saving her life by doing it.

  The righteousness of my awesome plan puffs my heart up and makes me feel as though for the first time in a long time I’m actually doing something that matters. That’s me. Big Sister Jenny. Watch out, bad guys, because nobody’s going to hurt my little sister; not if I have anything to say about it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I hear May’s car pull up in the driveway, so I hustle into the kitchen and take the bottle of wine out of the refrigerator. I’m not going to ask her if she wants any; I’m just going to give it to her and guilt her into drinking it. The doorbell rings as I’m pulling the cork. I pause and frown as I look toward the hallway. We’re using doorbells now?

  “It’s open!” I yell, annoyed. She knows I don’t lock my front door when I’m home during the day, and she has a key besides. I pour two glasses of wine almost to the brim. I need to get my sister buzzing so I can talk some sense into her.

  Yes . . . it’s true. I am willing to drug my sister to get her to see reason. Big Sister Code allows this in emergencies, and this is definitely an emergency.

  The door creaks open.

  “I’m in the kitchen!” I trill. I need to throw her off the scent of my anger by acting like everything’s hunky-dory, like I just want some bonding time with her. She’ll never see my sneak attack, big-sister advice coming until it’s all over but the crying.

  The wood floors groan as May makes her way down the hallway. I put the bottle of wine down slowly, a trickle of confusion and then fear floating through my brain. My sister doesn’t weigh enough to make my floors sag.

  “May?”

  She doesn’t answer. Oh, God. Someone who’s not my sister is about to enter my kitchen! My knife block is on the other side of the room; I’ll never make it there in time to grab one.

  I snatch the
corkscrew in my right fist and hold it up at my shoulder with my arm cocked back. If it’s a bad guy with a gun, I’m probably doomed, but I’m at least going to try to poke a hole in him on my way down, get me some DNA. I watch CSI. I know all they need is a speck of it.

  A giant of a man comes around the corner, stooping over to avoid hitting his head on my doorframe as he walks into the kitchen. I just stand there, my weapon and DNA-collection strategy forgotten.

  “Hey, Jenny.” His eyes travel from my face to my hand, and then to my weapon. “Not expecting me, I take it.”

  I slowly lower the corkscrew to the counter and place it down gently. I’m trying to rein in the emotions that want to run wild all over this guy. He is so lucky I didn’t have a knife in my hand; I might very well have thrown it at him, given how mad I am right now. I cannot believe my sister sent Dev in her place. My heart is breaking.

  He holds up my laptop in front of him as a shield. “I come in peace.”

  I shake my head slowly. My sister has violated so many sections of the Sister Code today, I don’t even know where to begin as I try to list all of her transgressions in my head.

  “Is that wine for me?” he asks, glancing at the counter.

  I look at the two glasses. “No, actually, the wine was for me and my sister. But I guess she was too busy to bring me my laptop or to sit down and chat with me.” I don’t know whether to cry or throw the wine glasses across the room. I’m considering doing both.

  Dev takes a couple more steps into the kitchen and puts the laptop down on the counter. “She was going to bring it over to you herself, but I asked her if I could do it instead.”

  I stare at him and blink a few times.

  “Are you mad?” he asks cautiously.

  I huff out a breath. “Not at you.”