She assumed the other residents knew something they weren't divulging. Flinch did seem ominous in a dark, dangerous, and freakishly strong way.
Adrenaline may have played a part, but she'd never seen a full-grown man lifted like he weighed no more than a rag doll. Charlie wandered around her small apartment.
"Your place looks really cute." Shirley appraised her work and decided he was right.
Her kitchen table wore a new blue and green Ericson plaid tablecloth, a nice contrast to the white walls and appliances.
Red pillar candles stood at differing heights in the living room fireplace, and a couple of favorite art books graced her coffee table that used to be an old trunk.
"But why don't I have you up to my place? I can provide the salad, wine, music, and ambiance." He requested.
"And I'll bet it's a little bigger." She asked.
"Well, yeah. It takes up the whole top floor." He replied.
"Okay, then. I'll cook and you can set the table." Now she had to shop for food.
Why oh! why did I offer to cook for Charlie? I barely know where the stove is. He grinned.
"Sounds like a plan." Yeah, she needed a plan. She could put together her famous lasagna and bake some breadsticks. She'd have to cheat and buy the frozen dough this time. Oh, and dessert.
Not one, but three. She owed her rescuers some kind of thankyou, and since home cooking was all she could afford, that would have to do. Hmm… Apples were in season.
"Well, I had better go grocery shopping!" "Until tonight," he said. Smiling, he let himself out and closed the door. Part of her wanted to stay cocooned in her own safe space, but she couldn't stay locked up forever. She had to go out before dark.
The grocery store was only a few blocks away, and rather than face the alley again she tugged on her jacket, found her strong mesh grocery bags, and set out for a brisk walk to the store.
As she locked her apartment door behind her, Brad appeared to be heading out, too. Wearing black with no reflectors, he wheeled a bicycle. Did everyone in this town wear nothing but black?
"How's the neck?" he asked.
"Oh, fine. It just needed a small bandage, nothing serious."
"Well, you were lucky. I hope it doesn't get infected. Even little scraps can turn really nasty. They can even cause death."
"Yes, I'm a nurse and know about infections. I bathed it in hydrogen peroxide." She replied.
"A nurse, eh? Where at?" Brad asked.
"Chicago General Hospital," she said.
His eyebrows rose. "That's where I work too. What floor are you on?"
"Five West. Evening shift." She inwardly squirmed at the golden sky that signaled approaching dusk.
"Ah, you're in pediatric orthopedics. I don't get a lot of business from you."
"Oh? Where do you work," she asked.
"I'm in the morgue. Easy clients. They don't ask for much."
"Ewwww." She immediately regretted her reaction. A morbid sense of humor would probably help in a job like that—and somebody had to do it. She figured he was a real party killer, though.
Shirley had carefully arranged it so her job minimized the likelihood of dealing with death. But her neighbor seemed unfazed. In fact, he grinned, as if pleased that his job came with shock value.
She needed to get to the store, so she cleared her throat and said, "Well, I've got to go… Oh, by the way, do you know where Flinch lives? I want to bake some kind of thank-you desserts for Ethan and him."
Brad tipped his head as if sizing her up. Then he shrugged. "I probably shouldn't tell you this, but you seem like a nice girl. Flinch doesn't exactly 'live' anywhere. He keeps his stuff in the basement, but don't tell anyone."
"Oh—I see. He's homeless, then?" Shirley added.
"I didn't say that. He has a roof over his head, he just doesn't live anywhere." Brad replied.
The way he emphasized the word live made her realize she had missed some sort of big hint. She lowered her voice and hoped that taking a conspiratorial tone might get him to open up.
"What do you mean? I won't tell, I promise." She insisted.
"I mean, he's not alive. He is undead and only comes out at night. Hates garlic… Ring a bell?" Brad answered forcefully.
"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
"Yeah. We have a vampire in the basement."
Shirley thought she heard a short gasp from the top of the stairs and then a soft click.
"Don't worry. You can use the laundry room down there without disturbing him. You might want to wash your clothes during the daylight hours—when he's dead to the world." Brad laughed at his joke, but Shirley found nothing funny about it.
The hair prickled on the back of her neck and her mouth dried up. Brad must be crazy. And lucky me, I live right across the hall! She mutely followed him out the door and down the steps.
Brad mounted his bicycle, said goodbye, and rode away. A few feet down the sidewalk he looked back and called over his shoulder, "Don't bother baking a cake for Flinch. He won't eat it—liquid diet and all. You can give it to me, though."