Desert Lost (9781615952229) Read Free Page A

there when you do.” Although Nezniacu’s background revealed no propensity for violence, in this crazy world a woman could never be too careful.
    â€œNo need. Baby Brian’s coming over.”
    Having met her son, the youngest of five, I had to smile. Her twenty-seven-year-old “baby” was six-foot-four with the build of a Hollywood action hero, and one look at him would scare the much-shorter Nezniacu into submission. “Just make sure Baby Brian plays nice.”
    A laugh, welcome under the circumstances. “I’ll try, but you know how kids are these days. Can’t tell ’em a damned thing.”
    The rest of the morning passed in much the same way, delivering a mixture of bad news and good. Henny was disappointed that I hadn’t caught the taggers who’d been plaguing The RV Corral, but sensible as always, she understood that a murder victim trumped messed-up RVs. When she asked if I planned to resume my vigil that night, I told her the taggers probably wouldn’t come back.
    â€œNow that the area has become a higher-profile crime scene, the kids will move on to safer territory.”
    â€œYou really think so?” Her voice sounded jagged from living too many years spent smoking too many cartons of unfiltered Camels.
    I reaffirmed there was an eighty to eight-five percent chance they were gone for good, and with that, we parted on friendly terms. Before I could place my next call, the phone rang in my hand: Warren, calling from the real estate office.
    â€œThe lease is signed, and Beth says we can move into the house tomorrow, if we wish. You finished packing yet?”
    I’d met Warren when he was filming Escape Across the Desert , a documentary about the Phoenix prisoner of war camp for German U-Boat crewmen during World War II. With his blond, surfer-boy looks, he was handsome enough to be an actor, but after a few minor roles, he’d found he preferred the other side of the camera. And, eventually, fact to fiction. The latter decision had worked well for him. One of his documentaries, Native Peoples, Foreign Chains , about the near-extermination of American Indians, had won an Oscar. The son and grandson of movie directors, he was as Hollywood as they come, yet we were moving in together. Because he disliked being separated from his eight-year-old twin daughters who lived in Beverly Hills with his actress ex-wife, he’d kept his home there so he could be within shouting distance of them for at least one week every month. Except, of course, when he was filming in some exotic location: Saudi Arabia, Mozambique, New York.
    Just hearing his voice made my heart smile, but I tried to disguise it. Unabashed adoration isn’t good for anyone, especially handsome men. “Packing? I’m getting there.”
    Actually, I hadn’t packed so much as one carton. Now in my mid-thirties, I had not lived with anyone since turning eighteen. A childhood spent in foster homes was probably responsible for that, but to be honest, I knew other ex-fosters who had no trouble forming permanent relationships. Most, though, hadn’t been raped repeatedly by a foster father at the age of nine.
    â€œExactly how many boxes have you packed?” Warren was clearly suspicious.
    â€œI can’t remember.”
    â€œYou do intend to move in with me, don’t you?”
    I took a deep breath. “Of course I do. I’m halfway packed.”
    â€œTell me the truth, Lena.”
    Counting to ten, I exhaled slowly. “It’s just that I haven’t done anything like this before.” And it’s scaring the hell out of me.
    His voice softened. “Why don’t we handle it like this, then? Go ahead and keep your apartment. If at any point you feel our situation isn’t working, your place will still be there for you.”
    â€œMaybe I’ll do that.” No point in revealing that from the start, I’d planned to keep my apartment