Love Me If You Must

25

I rested my finger against the stone, a shock of cold raced to my heart.

I drew my finger down the rippled surface. It slid easily in whatever slimy liquid covered the rock.

Not blood. It couldn’t be blood.

I flipped my finger over and checked the color.

Blood.

I gasped and pressed my back against the wall. Sharp stones poked into my spine.

The sound of harsh breathing echoed through the basement.

It was my own.

I stood frozen against the wall, afraid to move a muscle, afraid to be noticed by whatever blood-loving creature had left this mess.

I waited what must have been five minutes, just listening.

Total silence.

I prayed for the sound of the furnace to spur me into action. My fingers became numb in the cold. My breath puffed like fog around me.

Stuck in the headlights. That’s what Grandma would have called it. She’d tell me that not making any move was still making a move. I was just more likely to get squashed by an oncoming truck if I just stood here.

Move, Tish.

I inched toward the staircase, keeping an eye on the cistern. My foot pushed off on the bottom step, and I kept going straight to the top. I pulled the door shut and locked it with the deadbolt. If the viper was still down there, it wouldn’t escape through the kitchen door.

I rubbed my hands together and blew on them. The moist air fell short of warming my fingers.

The clock on the stove clicked and I turned to look. 4:20. My instinct was to call the police. But after the mockery I’d received last time I’d asked for help, I felt like skipping it. Still, did I have a choice?

“Central dispatch,” said a woman’s voice.

“Hi.” I gulped, not sure what to say. “Um, there’s blood in my basement and I don’t know why. Can somebody come down and take a look?” I felt childish with my request.

“Are you injured?”

“No, I’m fine. I just don’t know why there’s blood down there.”

“What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Tish Amble.”

There was a moment of silence at the other end.

“Miss Amble, have you been drinking at all?”

“No.”

“Have you taken any drugs?”

“Excuse me?”

“Where did you see the blood, Miss Amble?”

“In my basement. Over on the cistern wall.”

“Please hold while I dispatch an officer to assist you.”

The line went silent. I sat on my cot and waited.

“Miss Amble?” The dispatcher was back on line. “Officer Walters will be arriving shortly.”

I ended the call and cradled my forehead in my palms.

It seemed Officer Brad was on duty 24/7.

Within minutes, lights flashed against the bedroom wall, and I knew without turning that Brad had pulled in the drive. Living a mere two blocks from the cop shop had its rewards.

I patted down my hair and opened the front door.

Brad stepped in.

“Going somewhere?” He looked my outerwear up and down.

“Just to the basement to fix my furnace.” I turned and started walking toward the kitchen. “That’s when I saw the blood.”

I could almost feel him rolling his eyes behind me. Another hallucination from the queen of paranoia, he must be thinking.

Humph. I wasn’t hallucinating this time.

I stopped at the top of the cellar steps and crossed my arms. “There you go.” I nodded toward the steps. “The blood is over on the cistern.”

“Come down and show me.”

“I am not going down there. Don’t you have a partner or something? What if the perpetrator is still in the basement?”

“I’m a trained professional. I’ll make sure you don’t get hurt.”

I patted my bad leg. “I got hurt last time I went down there with you. I’m not making the same mistake twice.”

“The reason you got hurt last time is because you were consumed with fear. You should have seen your face. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ll be with you.”

“You don’t understand. Whether you believe me or not, there is blood in my basement. I’m not about to put myself in danger because you think I’m imagining things.”

“I never said you were imagining things. As your neighbor and friend, I’d like to see you get over your fears. And the only way to do that is to confront them. Admit it. Once you looked in the cistern and saw there was no body in there, you felt better.”

My jaw clenched. He had no idea what I’d been through since I’d seen that image in the concrete.

“You’re right.” I leaned against the wall. “There’s no body in the cistern. I feel great about it. But I’m still not going down there.”

He snorted, shook his head, then descended the stairs.

I paced the kitchen and waited for him to emerge from the cellar with some explanation for the bloody wall.

The squawking of a police radio drifted up the steps. Obviously, Brad had found whatever I’d been lucky enough to miss.

He thumped up the stairs and came over to me, glowering, his eyes filled with accusation.

At his look, I scrambled backward, cornered by the window and the kitchen counter.

“You were right. I was wrong,” he said through gritted teeth.

“What do you mean?” I bit my lip.

“There is a body in your cistern.”

Horror coursed through my veins. “Is it Rebecca’s?”

I didn’t want to know the answer, but after last night’s date with David, I’d been chewing on the awful possibility that it was Rebecca who called to me from the cistern.

“Rebecca? Have you seen Rebecca?” His expression turned from anger to surprise.

“Of course not. She’s buried in the basement.”

Brad grabbed my arms. “Tish. Get a grip. Rebecca’s in California. Martin Dietz is in your basement.”

My head lolled to one side. Only Brad’s strength kept me from falling over.

“Why is Martin Dietz in my basement?” My words slurred.

“That’s what you need to tell me.”

I shook my head, dazed. “I have no idea. Maybe he was inspecting the cistern and fell.”

Brad helped me slide to the floor.

“You two had an issue regarding the cistern, didn’t you?” he asked.

An issue. That was a nice way of putting it. “Yeah. I wanted to knock it down, he wanted to keep it up.”

“And he threatened you if you removed it?”

“I guess he threatened. He’s the zoning czar. He doesn’t have to let anybody do anything.”

“Isn’t it true that his denial interfered with your renovation and resale plans?”

“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’d . . .” I halted midsentence. “I don’t like your tone. Are you accusing me of killing Martin Dietz?”

“The man is dead in your basement. You had the motive, the opportunity—”

“I didn’t kill him.” Defending myself against his accusation was futile. Anything I said could and would be held against me. Just like last time. I struggled to lift myself off the floor.

Thuds and thumps sounded from the front of the house, and moments later, my kitchen was filled with donut dunkers.

The largest of the crew found his way over to me while the rest disappeared into the basement.

“Miss Amble, I’m Chief Doyle. Has Officer Walters explained to you your Miranda rights?”

Exasperation bubbled like lava in my guts. “I told you, I didn’t kill anyone.” I glared at Brad.

“You have the right to remain silent . . .” The chief droned through the list as if I’d never heard it before.

I stared numbly. Not again. I couldn’t face going through it again.

I was jostled and nudged. Next thing I knew I was sitting in the backseat of a police cruiser.