Kelly Mendig: Three Days to Dead

The third door opened easily, and I stepped into an unfamiliar world—a world of white carpet and pink-flowered wallpaper. Pink and red pillows rested on a white bedspread, and red curtains bracketed the room’s single window. An enormous painting of a vase of flowers covered most of the wall above a whitewashed desk. Every stick of furniture in the room was painted white. Stuffed animals lined a shelf high on the wall—bears and cats and puppies and pigs.

“Oh, ew,” I said.

I marched over to the white-shuttered closet doors. If her clothes were mostly pink, too, I was going to throw up. I yanked them open and was presented with an array of colors and styles. Very little pink in the bunch. Disaster averted. I rifled through until I found a stretchy red tank top and a pair of black jeans. Comfort clothes, something I could easily move in.

A quick search through her dresser turned up the appropriate undergarments, and I changed. Money was next. I inspected the half-dozen purses I’d spotted in the closet. Where the hell was her wallet? I’d settle on untraceable cash hidden in a sock, but that drawer had, likewise, yielded nothing.

I poked through her jewelry box. Standard mall stuff, nothing of secondary market value. Wrapped in pink tissue—what else? — I found a tasteful silver cross necklace. Engraved on the back were three words: “Love Always, Alex.” Sweet. I put it on. Crosses were an old joke in my line of work, a holdover from a time when people actually believed they warded off evil creatures. Silly superstitions.

Silver, on the other hand, is a potent weapon against the shape-shifters of the world. Weres are as allergic to silver as Bloods are to unpolished wood. I’d seen vampires stabbed with pine splinters as small as my pinkie who fell into their version of anaphylactic shock and died within minutes.

I used a pair of fingernail scissors to snip off the morgue bracelet. I tucked the creepy thing into the back of her jewelry box, glad to have it out of sight. Her desk yielded the jackpot—a slim, leather wallet and three keys on a C-shaped fob. One of the keys matched the one I’d gotten from the neighbor girl. They went right into my pocket. The wallet had a driver’s license, a bus pass, a debit card, and twenty dollars in cash. Not much, but it was a start.

One last toss of the desk uncovered a lot of organization and nothing very personal. Not even a journal or an address book. Just a few photos of Chalice with other people, including a few more with the man from the picture frame. Had to be a boyfriend.

Her laptop was off. I left it alone, but made a mental note to snoop later. It was inching closer to five o’clock, and I needed to get in and out before the roommate came home.

I crouched down and reached under the bed. Nothing, not even dust bunnies. I turned around and flopped down on the floor, blowing hard through my mouth. My fingers curled in the thick carpet. I wanted to rip it up and fling it out the window, to stop feeling so helpless. I hit the side of the mattress with my elbow. The headboard cracked against the wall.

Is this what a suicidal person did? Clean her room spotless before slashing her wrist? She couldn’t have done it here—no way the carpet would be so spotless. Bathtub, maybe. No streaks or overflowing water, not for such a tidy girl. And what about those track marks? I hadn’t found a single syringe or bag of powder among her things.

“Why did you do it, Chalice?” I said, fingering the thin chain around my throat.

As much as the pink-loving contradiction of a young woman deserved understanding, I couldn’t waste time on it today. Her body wasn’t ideal, but it was alive and healthy (unusually so), and I had it on loan for a little while. Item number two on my list of things to find out ASAP: how long did I have?

I stood up and went into the kitchen. A basket of mail sat on the counter. I shuffled through it. Bills and official mail, all addressed to Chalice Frost. Near the bottom of the stack were three letters, sent to this apartment, under the name of Alexander Forrester. Same as the one engraved on the necklace charm. I remembered what the neighbor girl had said, about my roommate’s name, and glanced at the framed photo on the counter. He kind of looked like an Alex.

No time, Evy, no time. Get the cash and get out .

Under the kitchen sink seemed like the next best place to check for stashed money. It smelled strongly of fresh cleaning solution. I pushed a bucket and sponge out of the way, both still moist. More bottles and a few empty coffee cans at the very back of the cabinet. Dish detergent and a box of steel wool. Nothing terribly useful.

The front door rattled. I froze, head halfway under the sink, heart pounding. A male voice was talking as the door opened.

“I appreciate it, Teresa, and I’m sorry I missed the lab,” he said. “I—hold on, I have another call.” Something beeped. “Hello?”

The door closed. I backed out as slowly as possible, careful to not knock anything over and give myself away.

“Yes, this is Alex Forrester,” he said. “Yes, I was the one who—What?” Keys clanked to the floor. “What are you saying? She’s alive?”

His shock-laden voice seemed to come from the center of the living room. I crawled to the edge of the counter and peered around, but I couldn’t see him.

“How is that possible? We both—” He inhaled sharply. “Yes, if I see her, I’ll call. I just … don’t know what to say. Thanks.”

A snap, probably his phone closing. Utter silence filled the apartment, interrupted every few seconds by a deep exhalation of breath. I silently urged him to leave, to run from the apartment in screaming shock, so I could escape undetected. But footsteps shuffled across the carpet, stopped.

“The hell?” he said.

The bedroom door. I had left it open. Shit. Might as well get this over with.

I stood up and moved out from behind the kitchen counter. A broad-shouldered man faced away from me, wearing tight jeans and a black polo, hands fisted by his sides, staring at Chalice’s bedroom door.

“Alex?” I said.

He yelped and turned too quickly, tangling over his own ankles. He tripped, hit the wall with a rattling thump, and stopped. And stared. He was wild-eyed and red-faced, but definitely the fellow from the photos.

“Chal?” he asked. Beneath the spots of red on his cheeks, the rest of his face was taking on a frightening pallor.

“Breathe,” I said. “Do not freak out on me. I’ve seen quite enough of that today, thanks.”

He took direction well and began sucking in large amounts of air. He straightened and pushed away from the wall, but did not approach. So far, so good. His eyes roved all over my body, taking in the details. Assuring a confused mind that it wasn’t seeing things.

“It’s really you?” he asked.

“It’s me.” I hated lying to him; he seemed like a genuinely nice man.

“How?”

“No idea. I honestly don’t remember much about the last couple of days. It’s all a blank.”

He blinked hard. “You don’t remember yesterday?”

I shook my head. He stepped toward me. I backed up, and he stopped his advance, hurt bracketing both eyes.

“I have to go,” I said.

His hand jerked. “Go where?”

“I can’t tell you.”

His hurt and confusion became palpable. He seemed fragile. Scared. Great, he just had to be the sensitive type.

“Do you trust me, Alex?” I asked, taking a step toward him.

“With my life, Chal.”

“Then please trust me now.” Another few steps. He let me close the distance between us. “I need to go and figure out a few things, and I’ll try to explain all of this later. Okay?”

“You’ll come back?”