Three to Get Deadly (Stephanie Plum, #3)

by Janet Evanovich

His store is set on the edge of the burg, a comfy residential chunk of Trenton where houses and minds are proud to be narrow and hearts are generously wide open.

The alternative to unemployment had been overseeing the boxing machine at the tampon factory. A worthy task, but not something that got me orgasmic.

New Jersey was up to its armpits in criminals. It didn’t have a lot of room in the prison system for amateurs like Stuart.

I don’t feel comfortable driving around buildings that haven’t got gang slogans sprayed on them. Look at this place. No boarded-up windows. No garbage in the gutter. No brothers selling goods on the street. Don’t know how people can live like this.”

I stared after him, dumbstruck. He’d tugged my hair. First a chuck on the chin, and now a tug at my hair. This was a definite put-off. It was one thing for me to snub Morelli. It was an entirely different matter for him to snub me. This was not how the game was played.

Ranger ran effortlessly for several blocks. His stride was steady and measured. His attention directed inward. I struggled beside him…nose running, breathing labored, attention directed to surviving the next moment.

An hour later I dragged myself into my apartment and collapsed onto the couch. I thought about the gun on my night table and wondered if it was loaded. And then I thought about using it on Ranger. And then I thought about using it on myself. One more early-morning run and I’d be dead anyway. May as well get it over with now.

“I need to go,” Morelli said. “See you around.” See you around? Just like that? All right, so there was a dead guy upstairs, and the building was crawling with cops. I should be happy Morelli was being so professional. I should be happy I didn’t have to fight him off, right? Still, “see you around” felt a little bit like “don’t call me, I’ll call you.” Not that I wanted Morelli to call me. It was more that I wondered why he didn’t want to. What was wrong with me, anyway? Why wasn’t he making serious passes? “Is something bugging you?” I asked Morelli. But Morelli was already gone, disappeared in the knot of cops on the third-floor landing. Maybe I should drop a few pounds, I thought, slumping down the stairs. Maybe I should have some red highlights put in my hair.

“Wait while I fix some leftovers to take home.” “Not too much,” I said. “I’m going on a diet.” My mother slapped her forehead. “A diet. Unh. You’re a rail. You don’t need to diet. How will you stay healthy if you diet?” I paced behind her in the kitchen, watching the leftovers bag fill with packets of meat and potatoes, a jar of gravy, half a green-bean casserole, a jar of red cabbage, a pound cake. Okay, so I’d start my diet on Monday.

Stephanie Plum’s rule of thumb for mental health—always procrastinate the unpleasant. After all, I could get run over by a truck tomorrow and never have to come to terms with the attack at all.

Rex was nosing around in his food cup when I got home, so I gave him a grape and told him about Stuart Baggett. How Stuart had been dressed up in a chicken suit, and how I’d bravely captured him and brought him to justice. Rex listened while he ate the grape, and I think Rex might have smiled when I got to the part about tackling Mr. Cluck, but it’s hard to tell about these things with a hamster. I love Rex a lot, and he has a lot of redeeming qualities, like cheap food and small poop, but the truth is sometimes I pretend he’s a golden retriever. I’d never tell this to Rex, of course. Rex has very sensitive feelings. Still, sometimes I long for a big floppy-eared dog.