Shot Girl Read Online Free PDF Page A

it?" The sarcasm dripped off my lips and from the way Tom pursed his, it had not gone unnoticed.
    "I’ll be there in half an hour. Don’t say a word," my mother instructed, ending the call.
    I looked sideways at Tom. "Since I’ve got the phone, can I call the paper?" It was worth a shot.
    "I already talked to Dick Whitfield," he said flatly.
    Fuck.
    "I didn’t give him the victim’s name, and he doesn’t know about the gun or that I’m taking you in," he continued.
    "Taking me in? Am I really a suspect?" I stared at him.
    We were stopped at a light on Chapel Street, and Tom just looked straight ahead. I squirmed a little in the seat; the black skirt shimmied up my thighs. As I tried to straighten it, I saw Tom watching. I covered up my legs as best I could with my hands, arms, and little purse.
    "No, you don’t," I said.
    "Don’t what?"
    "You don’t get to look at my legs anymore. You think I’m a murderer."
    "Doesn’t matter if you’re a murderer or not. They’re still nice legs," he said with a small smile as the light turned green and he hit the accelerator.
    "Can you at least stop at my apartment so I can change? I can’t stand the thought of wearing this getup much longer," I said.
    Tom’s expression indicated he didn’t think I should change, and he paused a few seconds. I figured he’d say no, but then, "Two minutes. That’s all I’m giving you. I shouldn’t even be doing that."
    I knew he could get in trouble for this, and I really did appreciate it. I told him as much.
    "Just keep your mouth shut about it, okay?" He gave me a sidelong glance. "Although I know how hard that can be."
    "Fuck you," I said grimly.
    He chuckled.
    "What do you think happened tonight?" I asked after a few seconds.
    Tom stared straight ahead into the headlights of a passing car. "I don’t know," he said softly.
    My mother had instructed me to say nothing, and while I don’t normally take her advice on things, the situation at hand might call for it.
    The Impala pulled up in front of my brownstone minutes later. I scrambled out with Tom hot on my heels. "Hot" being the operative word. I could feel drops of sweat trickling down between my shoulder blades, under my arms, and between my breasts. I’d have to reapply the deodorant.
    Once we got into my apartment on the second floor, I made a beeline for the bedroom, but that didn’t deter Tom. I stopped him at the door by raising my hand.
    "No, you don’t," I said.
    Tom took my hand and walked around me, around the bed, and to the side table. I took a deep breath as he pulled open the drawer.
    I knew what was in there without even looking. A couple of paperbacks, a package of bubble gum, and an empty box of Trojans.
    I also knew what wasn’t there.
    The drawer was where my gun should be. It usually wasn’t loaded; the ammunition was next to the gun box in the closet. I kept the .22 here just in case I needed to scare the shit out of an intruder. Both Tom and Vinny told me it was stupid, but it made me feel secure.
    I realized that Tom had not agreed to come back here just so I could change my clothes. He wanted to see if my gun was here; if it was, the gun in my car couldn’t be my gun. Then I’d be off the hook. Maybe.
    He didn’t even ask if I’d put it somewhere else. That’s what I get for being a creature of habit.
    "I’m going to need your clothes," he said softly, indicating the camisole and the skirt. I wasn’t stupid. I knew he wanted to make sure there was no blood or gun residue on them.
    I couldn’t argue. "There are plastic bags under the sink."
    He nodded as he slipped out of the room.
    My eyes wandered back to the bedside table. I stared at the drawer’s contents for a few seconds, wondering in a complete non sequitur if I shouldn’t restock the Trojans, but then realized, what the hell, if I’m in prison, I won’t be having sex anyway, so why spend the money?
    I shut the drawer and pulled the damp camisole over my head, wondering what I should