She was from somewhere else and still had the slightest trace of an accent. Sometimes when she got mad, it thickened up, and man, when she rolled her Rs—
“Do you see anything?” she spat in his ear.
“Uh, no.” He had to stay on his game. Just because it looked like they were gone didn’t mean somebody wasn’t coming back. People forgot stuff all the time. He wanted to be long gone in case somebody came back for a golf bag or a make-up case.
It was even darker in the bathroom. He felt around, not wanting to grab his flashlight.
“Oof!” Something tapped DeWayne on the balls and he almost went to his knees. He managed to lean on the counter as the pain crawled up out of his sack and raked across his stomach. His head swam a moment and he closed his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Mel asked.
“My balls,” he coughed out a minute later. “Something hit me in the balls.”
“What do you mean something hit you? You’re there alone, right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I am.” The feeling, like a vise, pinching off every blood vessel from his groin to his brain gradually subsided and he stood. He took a breath and pulled out the flashlight and skimmed the bathroom. The only thing in here not bolted down was an office chair on wheels. Unless the thing had rolled silently over, swatted him in the nuts and silently rolled back, it had been something else.
“So what do you see?”
“Nothing… just an office chair. What the hell is that doing in here anyway?”
“You really are a bachelor. That’s her make-up chair. Look at the counter. Is there an open space underneath the counter?”
DeWayne checked with the flashlight. “Yeah.”
“She sits there and does her make-up. Probably didn’t put it back after and you ran into it, boys first.”
“But I could swear—”
“Don’t start. What makes the most sense?”
Had to check himself. Mel was right. Sometimes he tended to go off on tangents, she liked to call them mini-conspiracies. DeWayne never had the evidence to support them, but believed all the same. It had to have been the chair. If he didn’t know better he would have thought there was somebody in here with him.
“All right. I’m back on the job. Call you back.” He ended the call and slid the cell back into its holster. He slid the backpack off and unzipped it. Out came the sack he would put all the goodies in and he could use the pack for heavier stuff.
A pair of eyes stared at him from the bathroom. DeWayne jumped, reaching for a weapon he didn’t have on him. Wait a minute. Was that one of those foam heads? The thing on the bathroom counter had a roughly drawn pair of eyes pointed in his direction. It had a curly-haired wig on it and someone had even gone to the trouble of giving it acne-pitted cheeks. DeWayne narrowed his glance and sidestepped. Thankfully, the eyes stayed put.
A rack of some kind with necklaces on it set next to the head-thing. He carefully removed each one and dropped them into the sack. There was a closet on the other side of the bathroom and he poked his head in. Expensive-looking clothes and shoes. On a high-up shelf there were a couple picture frames. He reached for them and scanned through with the flashlight. Nobody important. He always checked photos. DeWayne had gotten lucky on a break-in once and found a signed picture of some old guy Mel had told him was pretty rare. It had a personalized signature, so she didn’t take it, but she did kick him an extra twenty bones and told him to keep it up.