The Five Deaths of Roxanne Love Read Free

thoughts, examining and discarding responses. At last he said simply, “I find you intriguing.”
    “That sounds a little creepy considering you’ve never even met me before,” she said.
    He laughed, and the sound sent a trill down her spine. She didn’t know if he was flirting with her or toying with her. Maybe it didn’t matter. She was ill equipped to handle either one.
    “You and your brother seem to be having a disagreement tonight,” he said, switching the subject so unexpectedly that she had to scramble to keep up.
    “I can’t see how that’s any of your business,” she answered.
    “Can’t you? Why don’t you have a seat? Let’s talk about my business.”
    His eyes sparkled wickedly and the disquiet burrowing in the pit of her stomach spread its wings and became full-fledged anxiety. He was here to ask questions about Reece if she’d read the scenario correctly.
    Reece? What did you do?
    She needed to get back to the kitchen and find out what the hell was going on before the detective mind-melded her with another of those soul-searching looks and she said something stupid.
    Roxanne pinned another fake smile in place and said, “Of course, Detective—”
    “Santo. You can call me Santo.”
    Oh, I think not.
    “Let me just check on things in the kitchen first,” she said carefully. “We’re about to close up for the night.”
    He glanced at his watch as if to confirm it and nodded. “By all means. Put your affairs in order.”
    A really weird way of saying do what you need to do that pinged her inner alarms. She wanted to ask what he meant by that, but she glanced up again and all other thoughts vanished as she sucked in a stunned breath.
    In the time she’d been talking to him, the stain had spread to the edges of the ceiling. She could see it moving like a wave rushing the shore. The idea that it wasalive and with purpose took root in some sequestered part of her psyche and began to grow. She imagined she could even smell it. Dank and sulfurous.
    The detective pushed away from the table, staring up at it with sudden anger that was almost as confounding as the speed with which the stain had spread.
    As if from a distance, she heard her two regulars, Jim and Sal, talking. Jim muttered, “You smell that? Toilets backed up, you think?”
    “Must be,” Sal agreed.
    She jerked her gaze away and stared at the two men in shock. “Look,” she said, her voice squeaking. She jabbed a finger at the ceiling.
    They did, both of them coming to their feet as they stared at the seeping blackness overhead. “What the fuck is that?” Sal demanded.
    “I don’t know. It was just a spot earlier, but now—”
    A loud buzzing spun them all around to face the front door and windows. The noise seemed to come from just outside. Droning and harsh, it grew in volume and intensity as they watched with mouths open and eyes wide.
    Everyone except the detective.
    He knew what was coming, knew what made that hideous, atonal sound. She could see it on his face. He scanned from the ceiling to the windows and back, eyes hard, brows pulled.
    “What?” she breathed. “What is—”
    The first of the bugs hit the window with a squelching pop, and Roxanne screamed, jumping back. Greenish-brown goo splattered out from the point of impact, but she barely had a moment to register it before more slammed into the glass. Hundreds of them peppered it like bullets, leaving behind a nauseating smear of guts and gore. Each impact sent her back another jerky step until she bumped into the bar.
    “Why are they doing that?” she demanded to keep from screaming again. She wanted to cover her eyes and ears, but fear of not seeing kept her from doing either one.
    “Fuck,” Sal yelled. “Look at the ceiling.”
    She tore her gaze away only to see that the stain above had thickened into a slick black ooze. It looked like an upside-down oil spill on a choppy sea. Soon it would reach the bar and the kitchen. And the stench . . . Damp