Treachery in Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

it to herself, or herself and McNab. Then in maybe a month, dazzle Dallas with her light feet and lightning reflexes.
    She walked to the gym that served her sector of Central, but with one foot in the door spotted half a dozen cops—buff cops—pumping, running, sparring.
    She thought of her workout gear, the baggy shorts, the ugly sports bra she’d bought because it had been cheap. She thought of the size of her ass. And backed out again.
    She just couldn’t go in there, especially not with cops she knew, and strip down that way, pant and sweat with all those toned, ripped, light-footed bodies.
    And look fat and stupid.
    Which is why, she reminded herself, she never used the sparkly, shiny gym at Central—or joined a fitness club. Which was why her ass was too big, she decided, and why, following the laws of gravity, she carried too much weight in her feet.
    She ordered herself to suck it up, started to swipe her card and go in, then remembered the old, far from sparkly or shiny gym two levels down.
    Nobody used it, she thought as she hurried off. Or hardly anybody. Because the equipment was old, the lockers stingy, and the shower barely offered a trickle.
    But it would suit her and her new deal just fine.
    She found the security pad deactivated and strolled into the empty room. The lights flickered on as she went in, dimmed, flickered again, then held. There were rumors about rehabbing the area, but she sort of hoped they’d leave it be. It might be ratty, but it could serve as her personal gym.
    At least until she got ripped, light on her feet, and whittled her ass down.
    She peeked into the locker area, listened. Smiled. Yep, her personal gym, she thought, and choosing a locker at random changed into her ugly—and soon to be replaced—gear. She managed to stuff everything else in the breadbox-sized locker, and feeling righteous, went out to set her program.
    It was the first day in the life of the new lean and mean Peabody.
    An hour later, she lay on the grubby floor wheezing like the dying. Her quads and hamstrings burned, her glutes wept, and her arms couldn’t stop screaming for mama.
    “Never doing this again,” she announced. “Yes, you are,” she corrected. “Can’t. Dying. Can. Will. Help me, I think I broke my ass. Wimp, pussy. Shut up.”
    She wheezed a little more, then rolled over, made it to her hands and knees.
    “Should’ve started out slower, on a lower level. I knew that. Cocky bitch.” She gritted her teeth, determined not to crawl to the locker room and the showers.
    But she did limp.
    She peeled and tugged and fought the sticky sports bra off her sticky body, dropped it on the floor. Then rolling her eyes because her mother’s voice came clear in her ear— Respect what you own, Dee —she bent and picked it up again. She stuffed the sweaty bra, shorts, shoes in a second locker, grabbed one of the thin, placemat-size towels because she was afraid she’d be electrocuted if she risked the ancient drying tube—and stepped into one of the skinny shower stalls.
    She stepped out again when she found the soap dispenser empty and worked her way down the line until she found one with about half a teaspoon of green goo still in the dispenser.
    Maybe the water was cold, and more like a drip from a leaky faucet than an actual spray, but she wasn’t going to complain. Instead, she turned right, left, back, front until she’d managed to wash away most of the sweat.
    By the time she’d lathered and rinsed, she felt closer to human again, and began to consider splurging and picking up some ice cream on the way home. Not the real deal—that sort of thing was out of her splurge zone. But there was that place not far from the apartment that had a nondairy frozen dessert that was pretty damn good.
    And she’d earned it, she thought, turning off the taps. Man, she’d earned it. She grabbed the towel, scrubbed it over her hair.
    She patted at her face, her shoulders, and started to step out where she