Текст книги "Split Second"

Автор книги: Alex Kava

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 55 страниц)

CHAPTER 14

Tess McGowan smiled at the wine steward who waited patiently. Daniel had rambled on into the cellular phone the whole time the tall young man had uncorked the bottle and poured the obligatory amount for the taste test. At first, when he noticed Daniel on the phone, he had offered the glass to Tess. She quickly shook her head. Without a word, she directed the steward to Daniel with her eyes, so as not to embarrass the inexperienced man, whose smooth, boyish face still blushed.

Now they both waited. She hated all the interruptions. It was bad enough they were having an unusually late Sunday dinner because of Daniel’s business dealings. Why couldn’t he, at least, take Sundays off? She fingered the long-stemmed rose he had brought her, and found herself wishing that just once he could be more creative. Why not some violets or a clump of daisies?

Finally, Daniel firmly, but calmly, called the person on the other end of the line “an incompetent asshole.” Fortunately for Tess and the wine steward, that was his closing.

He snapped the cellular phone in half and slipped it into his breast pocket. Without looking up, he grabbed the glass, sipped then spit the wine back without giving it a swirl in his mouth.

“This is sewer water. I asked for a 1984 Bordeaux. What the hell is this crap?”

Tess felt her nerves tense in anticipation. Not again. Why couldn’t they ever go out without Daniel making a scene. She watched the poor wine steward twist the bottle around, desperate to read the label.

“It is a 1984 Bordeaux, sir.”

Daniel snatched the bottle from the young man’s hands and took a look. Immediately, he snorted under his breath and handed it back.

“I don’t want a goddamn California wine.”

“But you said domestic, sir.”

“Yes, and as far as I remember, New York is still in the United States.”

“Yes, of course, sir. I’ll bring another bottle.”

“So,” Daniel said, letting her know he was ready to talk to her though his hands rearranged his silverware and folded the napkin in his lap. “You said we had something to celebrate?”

She pushed up her dress strap, wondering why she had spent two hundred and fifty dollars on a dress that wouldn’t stay up on her. A sexy, black dress that Daniel hadn’t noticed. Even when he looked up at her, he raised an eyebrow at her fumbling instead of at the dress, and instantly he frowned at her. Dear God, she didn’t need another lecture about fidgeting in public. The man spent more time rearranging his dinnerware than he did eating, and yet, he felt he could lecture her about fidgeting. She pretended not to notice his frown and launched into her good news. If she kept enthusiastic, he couldn’t possibly ruin this night for her. Could he?

“I sold the Saunders’ house last week.”

His brow furrowed, reminding her that he didn’t have time to remember where the hell each of her clients lived.

“It’s the huge Tudor on the north side. But the best part is that Delores is letting me keep the entire selling bonus.”

“Well, that is good news, Tess. We should be having champagne and not wine.” He turned in his chair, going into what looked like a search-and-destroy mode. “Where the hell is that incompetent imbecile?”

“No, Daniel, don’t.”

He scowled at her for squelching his noble gesture, and she hurried to correct it.

“You know I enjoy wine much more than champagne. Please, let’s have wine.”

He raised his hands in mock defeat. “Whatever pleases you. Tonight is your night.”

He began to sip from his water glass but stopped, grabbed his napkin and wiped at the water spots. Tess braced herself for another scene, but Daniel managed to get the glass in satisfactory condition on his own. He replaced his napkin and the glass without taking a sip.

“So, how much is this selling bonus? I hope you didn’t spend it all on that overpriced frock that won’t stay on your shoulders.”

She felt the heat crawl up her neck before she had a chance to contain it.

“Of course not.” She kept her voice strong and managed a quick smile, pretending to enjoy his savage attempt at what he called dry humor.

“So? How much?” he wanted to know.

“Almost ten thousand dollars,” she said, holding up her chin proudly.

“Well, that is a nice little chunk of change for you, isn’t it?”

This time he sipped his water without cleaning the glass. Already his eyes darted around the room, looking for familiar faces. She knew it was a sort of professional habit and not meant to be rude, but each time, she felt as though he was hoping to be rescued from a mundane conversation with her.

“Do you think I should invest it?” she asked, hoping to bring his attention back to her with the one topic he loved to discuss.

“What’s that, sweetie?” His eyes only glanced at her. He had spotted a couple he seemed to know at the reservation stand, waiting for their table.

“The bonus. Do you think I should invest it in the stock market?”

This time he looked back at her with that smile she immediately recognized as the beginning of another lesson.

“Tess, ten thousand dollars really isn’t enough for you to be getting into the market. Maybe a nice little CD or less risky mutual fund. You really don’t want to mess with something you don’t understand.”

Before she could protest, his cellular phone started ringing. Daniel quickly flipped it out of his pocket as though it were the most important thing in the room. Tess pushed up her strap. Why kid herself. The damn phone was the most important thing in the room.

The wine steward returned, glanced at Daniel on the phone again, and Tess wanted to laugh at the young man’s pained expression.

“Why the hell is it so hard to fucking get this right?” Daniel barked into the phone loud enough for other diners to look over. “No, no, forget it. I’ll do it myself.”

He slapped the phone shut and was on his feet before he had it tucked back into his pocket.

“Tess, sweetie, I need to go take care of something. These idiots can’t seem to get one fucking thing right.” He pulled out a credit card and slipped out two hundred-dollar bills from his money clip. “Please have a shamefully expensive dinner to celebrate your bonus. And you don’t mind taking a cab home, do you?”

He handed her the credit card and the folded bills. He pecked her on the cheek and then left before she could object. But she noticed he had enough time to stop at the door and talk to the couple he had seen earlier.

Suddenly, she realized the wine steward was still at the table and now staring at her, stunned and waiting for her instructions.

“I think I’d like the bill, please.

He continued to stare, then held up the uncorked bottle. “I didn’t even pour one glass.”

“Enjoy it later with the other waiters.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m serious. On me. Really. Oh, and before you bring the bill, would you add two of the most expensive entrées you have on the menu.”

“You want them as takeout?”

“Oh no. I don’t want them at all. I just want to pay for them.” She smiled and held up the credit card. Finally, he seemed to get the message, smiled back and hurried off to take care of it.

If Daniel insisted on treating her like a hooker, she could certainly accommodate him. Maybe her silly little mind couldn’t possibly comprehend something as complex as the stock market, but there were plenty of other things she knew about that Daniel didn’t have a clue about.

She signed the bill for the wine steward, making sure to add a hefty tip for him. Then she took her two hundred dollars and hailed a cab, hoping the anger would burn off by the time she got home. How could he ruin this for her? She had been looking forward to a celebration. Maybe ten thousand dollars was a drop in the bucket for Daniel, but for her it was a tremendous accomplishment in a long journey uphill. She deserved a pat on the back. She deserved a celebration. Instead, she had a long, lonely cab ride home from D.C.

“Excuse me,” she said, leaning forward in the stale-smelling cab. “When we get to Newburgh Heights, forget the address I gave you. Take me to Louie’s Bar and Grill on Fifty-fifth and Laurel.”

CHAPTER 14

Tess McGowan smiled at the wine steward who waited patiently. Daniel had rambled on into the cellular phone the whole time the tall young man had uncorked the bottle and poured the obligatory amount for the taste test. At first, when he noticed Daniel on the phone, he had offered the glass to Tess. She quickly shook her head. Without a word, she directed the steward to Daniel with her eyes, so as not to embarrass the inexperienced man, whose smooth, boyish face still blushed.

Now they both waited. She hated all the interruptions. It was bad enough they were having an unusually late Sunday dinner because of Daniel’s business dealings. Why couldn’t he, at least, take Sundays off? She fingered the long-stemmed rose he had brought her, and found herself wishing that just once he could be more creative. Why not some violets or a clump of daisies?

Finally, Daniel firmly, but calmly, called the person on the other end of the line “an incompetent asshole.” Fortunately for Tess and the wine steward, that was his closing.

He snapped the cellular phone in half and slipped it into his breast pocket. Without looking up, he grabbed the glass, sipped then spit the wine back without giving it a swirl in his mouth.

“This is sewer water. I asked for a 1984 Bordeaux. What the hell is this crap?”

Tess felt her nerves tense in anticipation. Not again. Why couldn’t they ever go out without Daniel making a scene. She watched the poor wine steward twist the bottle around, desperate to read the label.

“It is a 1984 Bordeaux, sir.”

Daniel snatched the bottle from the young man’s hands and took a look. Immediately, he snorted under his breath and handed it back.

“I don’t want a goddamn California wine.”

“But you said domestic, sir.”

“Yes, and as far as I remember, New York is still in the United States.”

“Yes, of course, sir. I’ll bring another bottle.”

“So,” Daniel said, letting her know he was ready to talk to her though his hands rearranged his silverware and folded the napkin in his lap. “You said we had something to celebrate?”

She pushed up her dress strap, wondering why she had spent two hundred and fifty dollars on a dress that wouldn’t stay up on her. A sexy, black dress that Daniel hadn’t noticed. Even when he looked up at her, he raised an eyebrow at her fumbling instead of at the dress, and instantly he frowned at her. Dear God, she didn’t need another lecture about fidgeting in public. The man spent more time rearranging his dinnerware than he did eating, and yet, he felt he could lecture her about fidgeting. She pretended not to notice his frown and launched into her good news. If she kept enthusiastic, he couldn’t possibly ruin this night for her. Could he?

“I sold the Saunders’ house last week.”

His brow furrowed, reminding her that he didn’t have time to remember where the hell each of her clients lived.

“It’s the huge Tudor on the north side. But the best part is that Delores is letting me keep the entire selling bonus.”

“Well, that is good news, Tess. We should be having champagne and not wine.” He turned in his chair, going into what looked like a search-and-destroy mode. “Where the hell is that incompetent imbecile?”

“No, Daniel, don’t.”

He scowled at her for squelching his noble gesture, and she hurried to correct it.

“You know I enjoy wine much more than champagne. Please, let’s have wine.”

He raised his hands in mock defeat. “Whatever pleases you. Tonight is your night.”

He began to sip from his water glass but stopped, grabbed his napkin and wiped at the water spots. Tess braced herself for another scene, but Daniel managed to get the glass in satisfactory condition on his own. He replaced his napkin and the glass without taking a sip.

“So, how much is this selling bonus? I hope you didn’t spend it all on that overpriced frock that won’t stay on your shoulders.”

She felt the heat crawl up her neck before she had a chance to contain it.

“Of course not.” She kept her voice strong and managed a quick smile, pretending to enjoy his savage attempt at what he called dry humor.

“So? How much?” he wanted to know.

“Almost ten thousand dollars,” she said, holding up her chin proudly.

“Well, that is a nice little chunk of change for you, isn’t it?”

This time he sipped his water without cleaning the glass. Already his eyes darted around the room, looking for familiar faces. She knew it was a sort of professional habit and not meant to be rude, but each time, she felt as though he was hoping to be rescued from a mundane conversation with her.

“Do you think I should invest it?” she asked, hoping to bring his attention back to her with the one topic he loved to discuss.

“What’s that, sweetie?” His eyes only glanced at her. He had spotted a couple he seemed to know at the reservation stand, waiting for their table.

“The bonus. Do you think I should invest it in the stock market?”

This time he looked back at her with that smile she immediately recognized as the beginning of another lesson.

“Tess, ten thousand dollars really isn’t enough for you to be getting into the market. Maybe a nice little CD or less risky mutual fund. You really don’t want to mess with something you don’t understand.”

Before she could protest, his cellular phone started ringing. Daniel quickly flipped it out of his pocket as though it were the most important thing in the room. Tess pushed up her strap. Why kid herself. The damn phone was the most important thing in the room.

The wine steward returned, glanced at Daniel on the phone again, and Tess wanted to laugh at the young man’s pained expression.

“Why the hell is it so hard to fucking get this right?” Daniel barked into the phone loud enough for other diners to look over. “No, no, forget it. I’ll do it myself.”

He slapped the phone shut and was on his feet before he had it tucked back into his pocket.

“Tess, sweetie, I need to go take care of something. These idiots can’t seem to get one fucking thing right.” He pulled out a credit card and slipped out two hundred-dollar bills from his money clip. “Please have a shamefully expensive dinner to celebrate your bonus. And you don’t mind taking a cab home, do you?”

He handed her the credit card and the folded bills. He pecked her on the cheek and then left before she could object. But she noticed he had enough time to stop at the door and talk to the couple he had seen earlier.

Suddenly, she realized the wine steward was still at the table and now staring at her, stunned and waiting for her instructions.

“I think I’d like the bill, please.

He continued to stare, then held up the uncorked bottle. “I didn’t even pour one glass.”

“Enjoy it later with the other waiters.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m serious. On me. Really. Oh, and before you bring the bill, would you add two of the most expensive entrées you have on the menu.”

“You want them as takeout?”

“Oh no. I don’t want them at all. I just want to pay for them.” She smiled and held up the credit card. Finally, he seemed to get the message, smiled back and hurried off to take care of it.

If Daniel insisted on treating her like a hooker, she could certainly accommodate him. Maybe her silly little mind couldn’t possibly comprehend something as complex as the stock market, but there were plenty of other things she knew about that Daniel didn’t have a clue about.

She signed the bill for the wine steward, making sure to add a hefty tip for him. Then she took her two hundred dollars and hailed a cab, hoping the anger would burn off by the time she got home. How could he ruin this for her? She had been looking forward to a celebration. Maybe ten thousand dollars was a drop in the bucket for Daniel, but for her it was a tremendous accomplishment in a long journey uphill. She deserved a pat on the back. She deserved a celebration. Instead, she had a long, lonely cab ride home from D.C.

“Excuse me,” she said, leaning forward in the stale-smelling cab. “When we get to Newburgh Heights, forget the address I gave you. Take me to Louie’s Bar and Grill on Fifty-fifth and Laurel.”

CHAPTER 15

Kansas City, Missouri

Sunday evening

It was almost midnight when Agents Preston Turner and Richard Delaney knocked on Maggie’s hotel-room door.

“How ’bout a nightcap, O’Dell?”

Turner wore blue jeans and a purple golf shirt that enhanced the rich brown of his skin. Delaney, on the other hand, still wore a suit, his lopsided tie and open collar the only indications that he was no longer on duty.

“I don’t know, guys. It’s late.” Not that sleep mattered. She knew she wouldn’t be going to bed for hours.

“It’s not even midnight.” Turner grinned at her. “Party’s just gettin’ started. Besides, I’m starved.” He glanced back at Delaney for reassurance. Delaney only shrugged. Five years older than both Turner and Maggie, Delaney had a wife and two kids. Maggie imagined Delaney had been a conservative Southern gentleman even when he was ten years old, but somehow Turner managed to bring out a reckless competitive side.

Both men noticed that Maggie had answered the door with her Smith & Wesson gripped firmly in her right hand, dropped at her side. However, neither mentioned it. Suddenly it felt extra heavy. She wondered why they put up with her, though she knew Cunningham purposely assigned the three of them to the same conferences. They had been her shadows since Stucky had escaped last October. When she complained to Cunningham, he had been insulted by her accusation that he was providing watchdogs to make certain she didn’t go after Stucky on her own. Only later did it occur to her that her boss might do so in an attempt to protect her. Which was ridiculous. If Albert Stucky wanted to hurt her, no show of force would stop him.

“You know you guys don’t need to baby-sit me.”

Turner pretended to be wounded and said, “Come on, Maggie, you know us better than that.”

Yes, she did. Despite their mission, Turner and Delaney had never singled her out as some damsel in distress. Maggie had spent years working to be treated like one of the guys. Perhaps that’s why Cunningham’s motive, however honorable or well intentioned, still angered her.

“Ah, come on, Maggie,” Delaney finally joined in. “Knowing you, your presentation is all ready for tomorrow.”

Delaney politely stayed in the hallway while Turner leaned against the door frame as though taking up permanent residence until she agreed.

“Let me get my jacket.”

She closed the door enough to make Turner retreat into the hall and give her some privacy. She strapped on her holster, looping the leather contraption over her shoulder and buckling it tight against her side. Then she slid her revolver in and put on a navy blazer to hide the bulge.

Turner was right. The nearby bar and grill in what was called Westport buzzed with late-night conventioneers. Turner explained that the midtown Bohemian district, which still showed quaint signs of its early days as a trading post, was “KC’s nightlife hub.” How Turner always knew these details Maggie had never bothered to find out. It did seem as if Turner quickly became the expert at finding the hot spots in every city they visited.

Delaney led the way, squeezing through the crowd along the bar and finding a table in a dark corner. Only when he and Maggie sat down did they realize they had lost Turner, who had stopped to talk to a couple of young women perched on bar stools. From their tight knit dresses and shiny dangling earrings, Maggie took a wild guess that they weren’t law enforcement officers, but rather a couple of single women looking to meet a man with a badge.

“How does he do that so easily?” Delaney asked, watching and admiring.

Maggie glanced around while she scooted her chair against the wall so she could see the entire room. She hated having her back to a crowd. Actually, she hated crowds. Clouds of cigarette smoke hung over the room like fog settled in for the evening. The din of voices and laughter blended together, making it necessary to speak louder than comfortable. And though she would be with Turner and Delaney, she hated the looks thrown her way, some of which reminded her of vultures waiting for their prey to be left alone and vulnerable.

“You know, even when I was single, I hated dating,” Delaney confessed, still watching his buddy. “But Turner makes it all look so easy.” He twisted his chair closer to the table and leaned in as though ready to give Maggie his full attention. “So what about you? Are you thinking about getting back into the game?”

“The game?” She had no idea what he was talking about.

“The dating game. What’s it been? Three, four months?”

“The divorce isn’t final yet. I just moved out of the condo on Friday.”

“I didn’t realize the two of you were still living together. I thought you broke up months ago.”

“We did. It was more practical for both of us to live there until things were settled. Neither one of us is hardly ever there.”

“Shoot! For a minute there I thought maybe the two of you were thinking about giving it another shot.” He looked hopeful. She knew Delaney was a firm believer in marriage. Despite admiring his partner’s finesse at dating, Delaney seemed to love being married.

“I don’t think reconciliation is possible.”

“You sure?”

“What would you do if Karen made you choose between her and being in the FBI?”

He shook his head, and before he answered she was sorry she’d asked. He pulled his chair closer and his face got serious. “Part of the reason I became an instructor was because I know Karen gets nervous about me being in the middle of hostage negotiations. That last one in Philly, she had to watch most of it on TV. Some sacrifices are worth making.”

She didn’t want to have this conversation. Discussing her failed marriage accomplished nothing these days except to remind her of the hollowness in her gut.

“So I’m the bad guy because I’m not willing to sacrifice my career to make my husband feel better?” The anger in her voice surprised her. “I would never ask Greg to stop being a lawyer.”

“Relax, Maggie. You’re not the bad guy.” Delaney remained calm and sympathetic. “There’s a big difference between asking and expecting. Karen would never have asked. I made the decision. Besides, Greg’s got some major screws loose if he would let you get away, period.”

Her eyes met his, and he smiled, then quickly looked back around to see that Turner was still with his new friends. Though Delaney, Turner and Maggie spent hours together, week after week, there were usually no emotional revelations or personal discussions.

“Do you miss it?”

He glanced back at her and laughed. “What’s to miss? Standing in freezing-cold or stinking-hot weather for hours, trying to talk some asshole out of blowing away innocent people?” He rested his elbows on the table and scratched his jaw, his eyes serious again. “Yeah, I do miss it. But I get called in on a case every now and then.”

“What can I get you two?” a waitress asked as she squeezed between two diners to get to their table.

Immediately, Maggie felt a wave of relief, welcoming the interruption. She saw Delaney’s face relax, too.

“Just Diet Coke for me.” He smiled up at the pretty redhead.

Maggie was impressed with his unconscious flirting. Had it simply become a habit from hanging around Turner so long?

“Scotch, neat,” she said when the waitress looked her way.

“Oh, and that guy over at the end of the bar—” Delaney pointed “—it doesn’t look like it now, but he will eventually be joining us. Is your grill still on?”

The waitress checked her watch. A small beauty mark above her upper lip twitched as she scrunched her eyes to make out the time. In the dim light, Maggie could see the lines of exhaustion in the woman’s attractive face.

“They’re supposed to close down at midnight.” She kept her voice friendly though Maggie could tell it was an effort. “There are still a few minutes if I get it in now.” Her offer was genuine. “Any idea what he wants?”

“A burger and fries,” Delaney said without hesitation.

“Medium rare,” Maggie added.

“With pickles and onion.”

“And a bottle of A.1 sauce, if you have it.”

“Oh, and cheddar cheese on the burger, too.”

The waitress smiled at them. Maggie glanced at Delaney, and they burst out laughing.

“God, I wonder if Turner realizes how predictable he is?” Maggie said while wondering if there was anyone who paid as much attention to her habits and quirks.

“It sounds like the three of you are very good friends.” The waitress had relaxed, looking a little less fatigued. “I don’t suppose you know what he’ll be drinking?”

“Do you have Boulevard Wheat?” Delaney asked.

“Of course. Actually, it’s a Kansas City brew.”

“Okay. Well, that’s what he’ll want.”

“I’ll get his order in and bring back your drinks. Sure I can’t get either of you something to eat?”

“Maggie?” Delaney waited for her to shake her head. “Maybe some fries for me.”

“You got it.”

“Thanks, Rita,” Delaney added as though they were old friends.

As soon as she left their table, Maggie gave Delaney’s shoulder a shove. “I thought you said you weren’t good at this stuff?”

“What stuff?”

“This flirting stuff. Usually Turner’s doing it, so I don’t get to see the real master at work.”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” But it was obvious from his grin that he was enjoying the attention.

“‘Thanks, Rita’?”

“That’s her name, Maggie. That’s why they wear those name tags, so we can all share a friendly meal.”

“Oh, right, only she never gets to know our names or sit down and eat with us. How friendly is that?”

“Hey, guys.” Turner slid into the last chair. “Lots of attorneys here this time.”

“Those two women are attorneys?” Delaney craned his neck to get a better look.

“You betcha.” He waved a piece of paper with their phone numbers before tucking it into his pocket. “And I never know when I might need an attorney.”

“Yeah, right. Like the three of you were talking legal matters.”

Maggie ignored their banter and simply asked, “What conference is this anyway?”

Both men stopped and stared at her as if waiting for the punch line.

“You’re serious?” Turner finally asked.

“Hey, I make the same presentation every time, whether I’m in Kansas City or Chicago or L.A.”

“You really don’t get into these things, do you?”

“It’s definitely not why I joined the FBI.” Suddenly she felt uncomfortable with both of them studying her as if she had slipped and said something wrong. “Besides, Cunningham keeps my name off the program roster, so it’s not like anyone is coming specifically to hear me and my words of wisdom.”

She had interrupted their jovial moods, reminding them why she was really here. Not because she longed to teach profiling to a bunch of cops, but to keep her out of the field, away from Albert Stucky. Rita returned, relieving Maggie once again, this time with a tray of drinks. Turner immediately raised his eyebrows at her when she placed the bottle of beer and a glass in front of him.

“Rita, you’re a mind reader.” He wasted no time using her name just as Delaney had, as if they, too, were old friends.

The pretty waitress blushed, and Maggie watched Delaney, searching for signs of rivalry. Instead, he seemed pleased to leave the flirting to his single friend.

“Your burger and fries should be ready in about ten minutes.”

“Oh my God! Rita, will you marry me?”

“Actually, you should thank your friends. They got the order in just before Carl closed the grill.” She smiled at Maggie and Delaney this time. “I’ll bring out the rest of the order as soon as it’s ready.” Then she hurried away.

Maggie couldn’t help thinking that Rita was a seasoned waitress who already knew which of her customers were the big tippers. Turner rewarded his waiters and waitresses with attention and familiarity, but it was Maggie or Delaney who remembered to leave a substantial tip.

“So, Turner,” Delaney said. “Why are there attorneys at this conference?”

“Mostly prosecutors. Sounds like they’re all here for that computer workshop. You know, the database thing the Bureau’s been setting up. Lots of D.A. offices are finally getting connected. At least in the bigger cities. And since they’re all sooooo very busy, and can never spare an experienced attorney, it looks like they’ve sent their fresh young things.” He sat back and surveyed the room.

Maggie and Delaney shook their heads at each other. Just as Maggie tipped back her glass, she saw a familiar figure in the long mirror that stretched behind the bar. She slammed her glass down and stood, sending the table rocking and her chair screeching. She looked over in the direction from where she thought the mirror had reflected the image.

“Maggie, what is it?”

Turner and Delaney stared at her as she stretched to see over the bar patrons. Was it her imagination?

“Maggie?”

She checked the mirror again. The figure in the black leather jacket was gone.

“What’s going on, Maggie?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “I’m fine.” Of course she was fine. Yet her eyes searched for and found the door. There was no man in a long, black leather jacket coming or going.

She sat down, pulling her chair in and avoiding her friends’ eyes. They were getting used to her jumpy, erratic behavior. Soon, she’d be like the little boy who cried wolf, and no one would pay any attention. Maybe that was exactly what he wanted.

She grabbed her glass and watched the amber liquid swirl. Had it only been her imagination? Had she really seen Albert Stucky or was she simply losing her mind?