the purse, mentally chastising herself for letting the foggy night breed visions of horror. She had enough problems without creating fictitious monsters lurking in the dark. “There’s nothing in there that would interest you,” she assured the animal.
With a last pat on the friendly feline’s head, Sam unlocked the door to her car and headed for the dump she’d been calling home.
CHAPTER FIVE
THERE was a box in front of Donnie’s door. Shifting the small sack of groceries which she’d just picked up at the mini-mart around the corner, Samantha stooped over to study the writing on the outside of the brown cardboard. She thought that maybe it belonged to one of the neighbors and had been delivered to her apartment by mistake, but SAMANTHA MARTIN was written in clear block letters in the upper left-hand corner. There was no return address, no postage, no bar codes or distinguishing marks.
Whoever had delivered it, it hadn’t come through the usual channels.
Feeling that chill again, Sam glanced sharply down the hall. Her brother’s apartment was on the first floor of what had once been a turn-of-the-century townhome, now subdivided into four dark, irregular little dwellings. He shared the lower level with an eccentric, nearly blind elderly woman, so Sam had little hope that her neighbor had seen anyone coming or going. Upstairs was a struggling artist who painted unfortunate depictions of famous Charleston landmarks on old bricks and sold them down at the Market, and a man whom Sam was pretty sure sold his body when he wasn’t selling drugs. All in all, it wasn’t the friendliest environment, and she couldn’t imagine any of the building’s inhabitants leaving her any kind of neighborly gift.
Aside from her fellow tenants, no one except her employers – both at the bar and at the company she’d stripped for – knew that she’d taken over Donnie’s lease. And any mail which came her way was delivered to the post office box she’d rented. Discounting Justin, a handful of nurses and a couple of girls who worked with her at the bar, she didn’t think that anyone else in this town even knew her full name.
So who the hell could have left a box addressed to her in front of Donnie’s door?
Feeling that familiar prickling of skin along the back of her neck, Sam scooped the box – which was light – into the same arm with the sack of groceries. With her free hand she worked the deadbolt on the battered wooden door.
She turned it back immediately when she was on the other side.
Uneasy, Samantha deposited both the box and the food onto the tiny piece of laminate that served as a kitchen counter, flipping on the switch which bathed the whole living area in florescent light. It didn’t take much – the entire place was basically one big room, except for the tiny bathroom which had been added to make it rentable. Inching forward, Sam peered around the door into the tiled environment, satisfied by the absence of anyone lurking behind the shower curtain.
This place her brother had rented six months ago still smelled slightly of old gym socks and moth balls – an unpleasant combination to which she would never grow accustomed. But as she glanced around for signs of anything out of place, she noted that it was at least clean, and as orderly as she’d left it. The plaid sleeper-sofa sagged in the middle and the tiny dinette had seen better days, but in the way of men her brother had purchased a large, flat-screen television to dominate the small room. Sam picked up the remote and punched the button to turn it on low, suddenly feeling the need for some background noise in the otherwise silent apartment.
After gathering up the remains of the morning paper, whose headlines continued to speculate about the whereabouts of the mayor’s AWOL teenaged
With a last pat on the friendly feline’s head, Sam unlocked the door to her car and headed for the dump she’d been calling home.
CHAPTER FIVE
THERE was a box in front of Donnie’s door. Shifting the small sack of groceries which she’d just picked up at the mini-mart around the corner, Samantha stooped over to study the writing on the outside of the brown cardboard. She thought that maybe it belonged to one of the neighbors and had been delivered to her apartment by mistake, but SAMANTHA MARTIN was written in clear block letters in the upper left-hand corner. There was no return address, no postage, no bar codes or distinguishing marks.
Whoever had delivered it, it hadn’t come through the usual channels.
Feeling that chill again, Sam glanced sharply down the hall. Her brother’s apartment was on the first floor of what had once been a turn-of-the-century townhome, now subdivided into four dark, irregular little dwellings. He shared the lower level with an eccentric, nearly blind elderly woman, so Sam had little hope that her neighbor had seen anyone coming or going. Upstairs was a struggling artist who painted unfortunate depictions of famous Charleston landmarks on old bricks and sold them down at the Market, and a man whom Sam was pretty sure sold his body when he wasn’t selling drugs. All in all, it wasn’t the friendliest environment, and she couldn’t imagine any of the building’s inhabitants leaving her any kind of neighborly gift.
Aside from her fellow tenants, no one except her employers – both at the bar and at the company she’d stripped for – knew that she’d taken over Donnie’s lease. And any mail which came her way was delivered to the post office box she’d rented. Discounting Justin, a handful of nurses and a couple of girls who worked with her at the bar, she didn’t think that anyone else in this town even knew her full name.
So who the hell could have left a box addressed to her in front of Donnie’s door?
Feeling that familiar prickling of skin along the back of her neck, Sam scooped the box – which was light – into the same arm with the sack of groceries. With her free hand she worked the deadbolt on the battered wooden door.
She turned it back immediately when she was on the other side.
Uneasy, Samantha deposited both the box and the food onto the tiny piece of laminate that served as a kitchen counter, flipping on the switch which bathed the whole living area in florescent light. It didn’t take much – the entire place was basically one big room, except for the tiny bathroom which had been added to make it rentable. Inching forward, Sam peered around the door into the tiled environment, satisfied by the absence of anyone lurking behind the shower curtain.
This place her brother had rented six months ago still smelled slightly of old gym socks and moth balls – an unpleasant combination to which she would never grow accustomed. But as she glanced around for signs of anything out of place, she noted that it was at least clean, and as orderly as she’d left it. The plaid sleeper-sofa sagged in the middle and the tiny dinette had seen better days, but in the way of men her brother had purchased a large, flat-screen television to dominate the small room. Sam picked up the remote and punched the button to turn it on low, suddenly feeling the need for some background noise in the otherwise silent apartment.
After gathering up the remains of the morning paper, whose headlines continued to speculate about the whereabouts of the mayor’s AWOL teenaged
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