Read Online February Fever by Jess Lourey - Free Book Online Page B

appeared industrial, and the five in front of these were sleeping cars with two levels, including Car 11, where Mrs. Berns and I were bunking. The coach seats started at Car 9, Jed was in Car 8, and according to the train layout map, Car 7 was the viewing train with a café in the lower deck, Cars 5 and 6 were coach cars, Car 4 was the dining car, and everything forward of that was employee’s quarters or the engine.
    Moving from Car 10, the first sleeper car, to Car 9, the last coach car, was a wake-up call. I’d been too excited when I’d come in from the other direction, and everything had looked new and fun. Coming this way, the quiet elegance of the sleepers was replaced by the raucous feel of people waiting for concert tickets. Most coach seats were full, and conversation droned steadily. Some people hollered across the tight aisles, and the crowd was surprisingly young, about half male and half female. Walking on the train was difficult. It swayed steadily but would also jerk at odd times, tumbling you into the lap of a stranger if you didn’t hang onto the overhead rails as you threaded the needle.
    Car 8 had a similar feel. I thought Jed would be right at home here, but he was nowhere to be seen. “Excuse me?” I asked the pretty brunette in the seat next to his. “My friend Jed was sitting here. Do you know where he went?”
    She smiled at me and blinked. I waited politely for an answer before I realized she had ear buds in. I made the motion to remove them, thinking she’d be perfect for Jed. “My friend,” I repeated, “was sitting here. Do you know where he went?”
    â€œJed?”
    â€œExactly.”
    â€œHe’s so nice! Um, I think he was going to play cards with some people somewhere. Maybe?”
    I raised my eyebrows. “Thanks.” Maybe.
    Realizing that my kidneys had become champagne purses, I made my way to the lower-level restroom. Because of the space limitations, the steps leading down were steep and curved in on themselves at a 90-degree angle halfway down, which meant that I couldn’t see farther than four steps ahead of me. I reached the first landing halfway down the stairs and was about to turn to the right when the sounds of an argument zipped through the enclosed space.
    â€œâ€¦ and again. I don’t know why you do it.” It was a man’s voice, and the words were clipped.
    â€œI do it because you ask me to do it. What do you think? That I aim to hurt myself?” A woman’s voice, but not harsh. It was intense and focused, almost as if she was enjoying the heated discussion.
    Was this the couple I’d noticed arguing outside the station? This pair sounded older than the two I’d spotted, but voices are not as good a tell as many people assume.
    â€œI tried to use the bullet,” the man said. “You wouldn’t let me.”
    The hairs on the back of my neck bristled and I peered around. If I moved forward two inches on the landing, I’d be able to identify them. Then again, they’d be able to see me, and they were talking bullets.
    â€œI’m chugged full of your complaining,” the woman said. “Up to here with it.”
    I couldn’t resist. I snuck one eyeball to the edge of the landing and peered around, trying to expose as little flesh as possible while gaping downward. I spotted a flash of yellow. That wasn’t satisfying, so I peeked even farther before withdrawing, my heart hammering.
    The man was literally right around the corner, his back to me. I could have leaned around the landing wall and touched him without moving more than five inches.
    â€œYeah, well, you’re stuck with me, at least until we get the job done,” he said. “Now, I gotta take a leak. I’ll meet you at the car with all the windows. I’m getting claustrophobic arguing down here.”
    I spun around, planning to climb up and out of there before they spotted me,