Nowhere to Run by Nancy Bush Page B

In her mind, she couldn’t see how that was a bad thing.
    Forty-five minutes later, and after refusing another margarita several times, she thanked them all and headed out. Jimmy and Rosa urged her to come by again soon, and Liv promised to stop in the next time she visited her brother.
    As soon as she was outside the establishment again, however, she felt her skin prickle as age-old fears crept up again. Talking about her mother with Hague first, and then her father, had jarred something loose that wouldn’t go back into its place. With one eye looking over her shoulder, she hurried to her Accord and jumped inside, driving a circuitous route home, wondering if her paranoia was overtaking her good sense once and for all.
    When she got back to her apartment Jo and Travis . . . Trask . . . whatever . . . were out on the balcony and they invited her to have a drink with them. She almost said no, but decided she needed to foster neighborly relations since Trevor, or whoever he was, had seen the contents of the package. It just felt rude not to.
    â€œCome on in,” Jo said, and as Liv entered, she added, “Get her a drink, Trask! We’re having gin and tonics, or just gin, as in martinis. Whaddya want?”
    The smell of cannabis was thick in the air, but neither one of them was smoking a joint at the moment. “Gin and tonic,” Liv said.
    â€œComin’ right up,” Trask said, dropping ice into a glass, splashing in a healthy dose of gin, then topping it off with tonic. He added a lime wedge and handed it to Liv, who was committing his name to memory.
    Jo was half-drunk and dancing to some rock music with a lot of bass that Liv thought might bring the downstairs neighbors up and pounding on their door. As if reading her mind, Trask turned down the volume.
    â€œHow ya doin’?” he asked.
    â€œI’m okay. How about you?”
    â€œCan’t complain,” he said, nodding as if they were involved in a truly meaningful conversation.
    â€œDoesn’t anybody wanna dance?” Jo asked.
    Liv shook her head and sipped her drink, which was way too strong and made her feel like her bones were melting. She stopped about halfway through, knowing she had work in the morning.
    Still, she stayed at their place until past midnight. Trask gallantly offered to accompany her the ten feet from their door to hers. She tried to decline but he insisted, saying, “Trask Martin always walks a lady home.” At her door, he looked over his shoulder, focused a bit fuzzily on the parking lot below, and said, “Hey, y’know, I saw this dude outside your door a couple weeks ago. He was just standin’ there and I asked him, ‘What’s up, dude,’ and he just turned and left.”
    A cold jolt of fear ran through Liv. “ My apartment?”
    â€œUh huh. Acted kinda weird, I thought.”
    â€œWhat did he look like?”
    Trask screwed up his face like he was really thinking hard. “Wore a hoodie and jeans. Didn’t turn my way. Headed down the stairs to the lot and went over there. . . .” He gestured to the far end of the parking lot which was lined by thick Douglas firs. “Gray truck. GMC. 2005. I know ’cuz I had one just like it once,” he said wistfully. “Now, I’ve got a piece of shit with a bad alternator. One of these days I’ll get it fixed.”
    â€œHow old was the guy?” Liv asked. She was coiled and tense.
    â€œDon’t know. Young? With that hoodie, I kinda thought . . . Hard to tell, though.”
    â€œAnd he was at my door? Just mine?”
    â€œMaybe he was sellin’ somethin’. You just seemed kinda freaked out earlier, so I thought maybe you should know.”
    â€œThanks,” she said with an effort.
    â€œNo problemo.” He headed back toward his door and Liv hurried inside hers and slammed the dead bolt shut. The apartments didn’t come with dead bolts as an option;