Heather Graham - Picture Me Dead

Of course, such an old place had its downfalls. Like hot water in the shower. She remembered that Nick had said Sharon was in the shower the minute she stepped under the lukewarm water. No matter, it made her hurry. Afterward she briskly toweled herself dry. There was nothing wrong with their air-conditioning system. Nick had maintained it well, knowing that his lunch crowd didn’t want to come in from a blistering morning in the hot sun and not find a spot of sweet cool solace.

Dressed and ready in fifteen minutes, she hurried back out to the kitchen. She was surprised to see that Nick, too, had already managed a quick—and probably downright chilly—shower. He was in cutoffs and a polo shirt, leaning over the kitchen counter, a grim look on his face as he scanned the newspaper in front of him. Sharon was standing beside him, gravely regarding the newspaper, as well. Her uncle’s girlfriend of nearly a year was an incredibly attractive woman. Petite, no more than five foot two, and that was in shoes with at least a wedge of heel, she was also slender. She loved a rigorous workout, though, and her efforts showed in the elegance of her compact figure. She was probably a few years younger than Nick—in fact, she could almost pass for thirty—and often seemed too elegant and refined for the dockside bar where she spent so many nights. She could be a tiger in pursuit of a business deal or in regard to her newest passion: politics. But she was pleasant to Ashley at every turn, showing a real interest in her life. She wore her hair in a natural style that just brushed her shoulders. It was almost platinum, which went well with her huge blue eyes. She was an arresting woman, assertive rather than aggressive, intelligent, and a great deal of fun, as well. She was up for any adventure, which made her a good companion for Nick.

“Hey, you all found an article on the accident?” Ashley said.

Nick looked up, startled. He caught her eyes and nodded, that serious look still drawing his face.

“Morning, dear, and we’re so sorry,” Sharon said, those great blue eyes of hers on Ashley then, full of compassion.

“Sorry? What is it?” she asked.

“It took some doing to find the article—there was a storm on Saturday night, and there were two fatal accidents, as well as that pedestrian being struck on the highway. But there is an article in the local section. The body you passed, Ashley,” Nick said. “It’s a kid you went to school with. He’s not dead, though. In a coma, suffered lots of internal injuries, and the doctors are offering his family little hope.”

“What? Who?” she asked, frowning as she looked from one to the other of them, then walked to the counter herself, anxious to see the story in black and white.

“Stuart Fresia,” Nick said.

“Stuart?”

“I understand he was a good friend of yours,” Sharon said.

Ashley was startled as she took the paper, quickly gazing over the words and finding them hard to comprehend.

Stuart.

Not just a kid she had gone to school with, an old friend. Granted, she hadn’t seen him lately, not in a few years. But he’d been a smart kid, the kind to turn into a smart adult. He’d been one of those people able to tread the lines between popularity, peer pressure and academics. He’d always talked about law school. He’d known how to go out, sneak a few drinks when they’d gotten hold of some beer, and never get wasted. He’d smoked cigarettes—and a cigar on occasion—but never become entangled in drugs. She’d envied him sometimes. While it seemed that she lived vicariously through the heartache of divorce—and sometimes remarriage and divorce and remarriage again—with the parents of a number of her friends, she’d gone home with Stuart many times to find two people who still loved one another, and their son, more than anything else in life.

And despite the natural scrapes he had gotten into while growing up, he had adored his folks. He’d recognized a certain responsibility at an early age, being an only child.

Stuart. On the highway. In his underwear. It didn’t make sense.

Neither did the article. Not to Ashley.

She read it through several times. According to eyewitnesses—and the heartbroken driver who had hit him—Stuart had simply started sprinting across the highway, heedless of traffic. No one knew where he had come from, other than the far side of the highway. His car had not been nearby. He had not carried any identification. He had just been there, in that pair of white briefs, on the highway. He had sustained numerous injuries, including severe damage to the skull. After hours of surgery, he was in a coma, clinging to life with the assistance of machines. Doctors were doing everything they could, though it was unlikely he would make it. Still, the surgeon also stated that with a young man in the prime of life, and with a will and natural instinct to survive, there was always hope.

As to how the accident had happened, what had made him go racing across the highway, heroin seemed to be the answer. Blood and urine tests had come up positive for the drug.

“No,” Ashley murmured.

“I’m sorry,” Nick told her softly, standing behind her to place supportive hands on her shoulders.

“No, no, I mean, it’s all wrong. Stuart on heroin? He wasn’t a junkie.”

“Ashley, it’s been a while since you’ve seen him, right?”

She set the paper down and looked at Nick. “It’s been a while, but I still can’t believe it.”

“People change, Ashley,” Sharon said.

Ashley shook her head, frowning. “Stuart always wanted to give blood when they had all those drives at church or school when a disaster struck. They always turned him down, because he was one of those people who fainted when you came at him with a needle. This is all wrong.”

Nick took her into his arms and gave her a warm hug. “Ashley, it happened. You saw the body, and you’ve read the article. Maybe Stuart was a good kid, a great kid. Maybe he’s still basically a really good man and he just got in with the wrong people. But…hey, he is still alive. There’s hope.”

“You’re right. At the moment, anyway, he’s still alive. If he’s made it since Saturday. What if he hasn’t?” She stared at Nick in horror. “I’ll go through the—the death notices for Sunday and today…that’s today’s paper over there, isn’t it?”

“I checked already—there’s no notice,” Sharon said.

“Thanks,” Ashley told her.

Nick said, “Listen, you have to get to work. I’ll call the hospital, ask for his condition and leave a message on your phone, and you can check it when there’s a break. All right?”

She nodded. “Great, Nick. Thanks, both of you.”

She started out the kitchen door. When she opened it, she found a man standing there.

It seemed to be happening on a daily basis now.

But she knew Sandy Reilly well. He’d been hanging around Nick’s for at least seven years. He looked as if he were about ninety, he was so weathered and wrinkled. She thought he was probably more like seventy, but no one ever asked him, and he never offered information regarding his age. He lived in one of the houseboats down along the pier, or, at least, he supposedly lived in his houseboat. But he spent most of his time at Nick’s.

“Hi, Sandy.”

“Hey there, kid, you’re looking spiffy in that uniform.”

“Thanks, Sandy.”

“Cops, cops, cops, we got ’em all over the place.”

“We do?”

Sandy laughed.

“You don’t know how many cops come in here all the time?”

“I know of several, of course. Not as many as you seem to think we get. But this is a public establishment, Sandy. We don’t ask people what they do for a living when they come in.”