Thirty minutes later, Roxy sat in Rafe’s truck, parked down the street from her apartment building. He’d gone to check if the police had anyone sitting on her apartment, waiting for her.
“Are the cops posted outside?” Roxy asked when he got back.
“No cops.” He winced. “But you might want to check out your apartment. Ms. Potter is packing up your stuff, muttering something about owing rent.”
Roxy’s heart sank. “She what?”
“Why don’t you let me loan you a few bucks to tide you over?”
“You’re sweet.” She kissed his cheek. “Go to work. I’ll call you when I’m done with Adelaide.”
“And the money?”
“No thanks.” She ran toward her building. It would be so easy to take money from Rafe, but they hadn’t even defined what they were yet. She didn’t know how he’d be as her loan shark. Nothing about that situation made her feel good. She’d rather be homeless.
Given the overflowing box on the front lawn, she might just be homeless. She looked inside. Her wine glasses stuck out between her underwear. Great.
She ran up the stairs and Ms. Potter was hunched over a cardboard box on the floor. At least the woman was packing up her crap before throwing it on the lawn.
“Ms. Potter!” Roxy felt the urge to pull out the newly gifted mace in her pocket, but she refrained. It wasn’t for minor annoyances, only for bad guys.
“Oh, hi dear.”
“What are you doing?” Roxy managed to refrain from saying “stop touching my stuff.”
“You were going to pay the rent. Then the police came round and you didn’t, so I figured you were moving. I don’t want any more codswallop. I told you.”
“I have the money. I’m not moving.”
“You’re not?”
“No. Please, Ms. Potter give me a chance. I have something I have to work out, but I want to live here. She ran to her bedroom and opened her bottom drawer. Ms. Potter hadn’t gotten that far yet.
She pulled out her checkbook and prayed that M&J direct-deposited her check like they always did. Being suspected of a felony didn’t negate money owed, did it? Either way, she had no choice but to fill out a check. “Here. I’m sorry it’s late.”
Hopefully it wouldn’t bounce.
“Okay, honey.” Ms. Potter folded the check and slid it in her bra. She looked at the half-filled box. “I guess I’m done here. Oh, there’s a box on the lawn you might want to fetch.”
Since it had her stuff in it. Yeah. She wanted to fetch it. She’d rather it not be on the front lawn in the first place. She didn’t say any of that out loud. It wasn’t Ms. Potter’s fault Roxy forgot to pay her rent.
In her defense, she’d been rather busy—ironically, with her other defense. Roxy sprinted down the stairs and stuffed her underwear back in the box. Since it had been lying around the front lawn for local perverts to fondle, she might just have to toss these. Not might.
She carried the box inside. Ms. Potter stood in the middle of the living room. “Do you need anything else Ms. Potter?”
“Oh no.” She patted her bra, where she’d shoved Roxy’s check. She stood there, watching the door.
“I’m not going to have time to unpack today.” Not that Roxy thought Ms. Potter would want to help, but she just stood there. “I have to leave.” Translation: you have to leave.
“You know, the police said I should call if you come round again.” Ms. Potter eyed the door.
“It’s all misunderstanding.” Roxy grabbed her keys and headed to the door.
“I’m sure it is, dear.”
The tell-tale sound of sirens wafted closer. “You called the cops.”
The old woman at least looked remorseful as she stared at her flowered house shoes. She didn’t look like she’d wanted to call the cops, but that didn’t change the fact that she had.
Roxy ran down the stairs, Ms. Potter stuck to her heels. Her house shoes smacking against her bare feet. “They just want to talk to you.”
“I don’t want to talk to them.”
“But they’re both very nice and very handsome.”
Which might be very true, but that didn’t mean Roxy wanted to do the perp walk between them. “See you later, Ms. Potter.”
She tried to angle into her car, but the canister in her pocket stopped her. She pulled the mace out and shoved it in the glove box. She said she’d take it, that didn’t mean she wanted to use it. She turned the key. Sputt…Sputt…Sputter.
Dammit.
She rubbed the dashboard and kissed the steering wheel. “Come on, baby. If you don’t start, I’ll end up in prison, and you’ll end up in some auction where they’ll chop you up for parts.”
The engine caught. She shifted into drive and took off, heading away from the sirens and, hopefully, toward some answers.