Tentatively, I slid the door open. My eyes rolled up to make sure the ceiling wasn’t going to crack and fall on my head. Satisfied that asbestos and stucco weren’t going to rain down, I crouched, examining the pile of shoes scattered at the bottom of the closet.
I found the bunny slippers in the corner under a pair of canvas high tops and another pair of slippers I hadn’t seen before. The rubber from the high tops melted to the fuzzy brown toe of one slipper. It took a few minutes, but I pried the sneaker free and squeezed the water from the slippers. My phone rang as I hunted for something to wrap them in.
I tucked the slippers under my arm and dug for the phone. “Glass.” Water soaked through my jacket and trickled down my ribs.
“I thought you were going to send a video? How long does it take?” Darryl demanded angrily.
“Wanna see what I see? Here!” I turned his volume down, pressed the video button and then put the phone back in my pocket. He could hear me, but I didn’t want him to see my attachment to the fucking slippers.
Footsteps along the hallway caught my attention. “Hey, do you have a baggie or something?” I asked the inspector as I rounded the corner directly into the barrel of a gun.
“Whoa, hello.” My hands jumped to my gun reflexively.
“Don’t,” Detective Frank Marco ordered. “I got nothing to lose here, Glass.”
I brought my palms up in front of my stomach. The slippers splatted to the floor. “Hey, Frank. What’s up?”
Sweat dripped from his forehead. He blinked excessively and wiped at it with his arm, but another drop followed the same path. The hand holding the gun shook. “Where are they?” The tip of the barrel jammed hard into my forehead.
“Ow. Where’s what?” I took a step back, using considerable effort not to raise my hands higher and rub the pain away. Any sudden movements could set him off.
“Don’t fuck with me. Where are they?”
“Look, Frank, man, I came in here to see if I could salvage some clothes.”
“Don’t talk like we’re friends, Glass. You ain’t got friends. I count myself lucky that it’s you in here because anyone else would be hard to shoot. But not you. Give me what I want, and I’m outta here. Don’t, and I’ll find ways to encourage you to give it to me.”
Ouch. Don’t argue with the desperate. “I haven’t found anything,” I said honestly.
“This is the wrong room.” Frank squinted and tilted to look past me. “This is the other one’s room.”
“Frank?” A voice called from what sounded like the entrance of the house.
“Back here, Del.” Frank’s eyes never left me.
A second later, Detective Max Delmonico’s movie star smile beamed behind Frank. “Martinez and the fairy are sitting in the car playing with their cell phones. Captain thinks we’re here to oversee CSU and this faggot. We’re good to go.”
“Get his gun.”
Del reached across and slipped my gun from the holster, tucking it in his jacket pocket. “Why are we in this room?”
“Found him here.” They both glanced around the room. “Are they here, Glass?”
I only hoped Darryl was still recording. I needed to buy time. “I don’t know.” I turned slowly toward the room. “I haven’t had a chance to look thoroughly. I’ve only been here once.” On Wednesday when one of you assholes tried to set me on fire. Wednesday. Why was I in Peter’s room on Wednesday? On Saturday, Cai had tried to lure me to his own room. On Wednesday Cai had pointed me to Peter’s. Cai had directed me here. It was in Peter’s room. The safe was in this room. “CSU will be here soon, and Luis is bound to get suspicious if I don’t check in.”
“You’d better find it two minutes before ‘soon’ then, because a minute before that and there will be one less faggot rich boy staining the uniform.” Del stuck his gun against my nose and ripped off my face mask.
“Did the irony in that statement make you laugh just a little?” My eyes crossed to look at the gun.
“Fucking find them, Glass. We ain’t interested in your smartass remarks,” Frank said and pushed Del’s arm away.
Del and Marco weren’t the brightest of pairs, but desperate, stupid men were more dangerous than the smart ones. The stupid ones acted first. I was just as likely to get shot in the head as I was to have a kneecap blown off. I decided to obey and scanned the room, turning slowly. What had I missed?
One of them poked the back of my head with a gun. Why the head every time? Couldn’t they poke my ribs? My back? It was hard to concentrate with the headache starting to form. It was even harder to focus with fear punching my heart and crushing my lungs. But that was when things usually got worse for me. When fear controlled my mouth. For once, Austin, just keep your mouth shut. Don’t poke bears.