Page 101 of Fire and Bones

“What’s the last thing to go through a bug’s mind when hitting a windshield?” she asked, the corners of her lips crimped into a mischievous smile.

“No idea.”

“Its asshole.”

My eyes rolled with zero input from me.

“Dinner’s off?” I guessed.

“Do you mind? I really want to dive into this story.”

“Not at all.”

I shifted into gear and gunned the accelerator.

After dropping Doyle at home, I looped back to a Walgreens we’d passed along the way.

Ten minutes later my little cart held products I hadn’t anticipated needing on a brief trip north. My preferred brands of toothpaste, deodorant, and moisturizer. A pack of ankle socks. A cordless mini flat iron. A pink-and-purple emery board. A few random impulse items, most involving creativity with hair.

Jesus, Brennan. Are you hoping for an invite to the prom?

The self-checkouts were on the fritz and only one register was open. Six customers were queued up to pay, two looking peeved, the others with eyes fixed on their mobiles.

Frustrated on multiple levels, hating weekends and icemaker-caused floods and house fires and drive-bys, I took my place at the back of the line.

While awaiting my turn, I phoned Katy, hoping, illogically, that the Annex was inhabitable.

Nope.

Inwardly cursing, I inched forward, one cart length at a time.

The cashier was a bosomy blonde with dark roots and makeup too garish for the unkind drugstore lighting. Her name tag said Charlaine.

Charlaine greeted each customer with an expression of delighted surprise and a barrage of folksy banter. Which did nothing to speed the process.

Stars were born and died. The earth rotated.

Finally, I was second in line. Bored, I grabbed a half dozen Snickers and Kit-Kat bars from a rack positioned to lure shoppers into doing just that. Within earshot now, I half registered the conversion between Charlaine and an old coot in leather suspenders and baggy tweed pants.

The pair were discussing the inconvenience of home renovation projects. The nuisance of having workers underfoot. The bother of having to register for this permit and that.

One complaint snapped me to attention.

Suddenly, I was on fire to get to my laptop.

Back in my room, eating a Whopper and fries, I booted my Mac and returned to the Montgomery County DOT site.

Quickly verified what I’d overheard.

I was about to phone Doyle when she appeared at my open door, looking like her heart was pumping pure adrenaline.

“Lloyd Emmitt Warring.”

“Back up,” I said.

“Went by Lew.”

“Who did?”