Page 63 of A Mean Season
“You’re nervous though.”
“People are unpredictable.”
“What about the money? Do you have what you need?”
“No. I’ll figure it out. It’s all contingent on my getting financing, so worst case the deal falls apart.”
Without another word, he went downstairs to make himself some dinner. I nibbled on crackers and ginger ale. I didn’t want the deal to fall apart. Ronnie wanted this, so I wanted it for him. I just needed to figure out how to help.
After a few minutes, I settled in to reading my book. Kinsey Millhone always made me feel a little bad about myself. She spent an inordinate amount of time jogging and still managed to figure things out faster than I ever did. I was asleep by ten with the book open on my chest.
I woke up around three and started worrying about what I was going to do. Ronnie slept next to me. I didn’t have much to pack. Some clothes, a few books, a picture of Ronnie, maybe two...
In the basement, I’d hidden a travel bag filled with a gun, ten thousand in cash, and some necessary documents to get me started again. I’d take the Jeep; it was paid for. I could “sell” it to my new self or trade it in on something else.
Which way would I go? Obviously, not west. That was nothing but water for a very long way. My real choices were north and east or some combination of north and east. I’d have to pick up a job soon. Real soon. It was easy to get bartending jobs, but I’d been found that way twice. Of course, I could avoid gay bars. And cities with gay ghettoes. Maybe that was the right idea. I shouldn’t be involved with anyone after Ronnie. I’d been foolish to try and build a life with him. I might have to pick up and run again. I shouldn’t involve anyone else. Shouldn’t have a boyfriend. Shouldn’t even have friends.
I could leave in the morning, after Ronnie went to work. It was a good time for Lydia since we’d just finished three cases. It wasn’t a good time for Larry Wilkes. There wasn’t much I could do about that, though. Was there?
I finally fell asleep around four. In the morning, I woke around eight-thirty. Ronnie was already up, showered and dressed. He gave me a big smile, and said, “Hey, you made it through the night without puking.”
“Not exactly.”
“You threw up?”
“Once.”
“Why didn’t I hear you?”
“I was very quiet.”
He glared at me suspiciously. He threw a couple times a year when he drank too much. When that happened, it sounded like he was being drawn and quartered. I knew he thought it was impossible to vomit quietly.
“Come on,” I said. “Bulimics puke quietly all the time.”
“Are you bulimic?”
“Of course not.”
He was still suspicious but had clients waiting. As soon as he left the bedroom my mind was spinning again. I didn’t feel right about leaving without at least getting Lydia to take Larry Wilkes’ case—I didn’t feel right about leaving Ronnie either, but I knew he’d be better off without me. Larry Wilkes would not be.
I waited almost an hour and then snuck downstairs, wearing just a pair of boxer briefs. I hurried into the living room and picked up the three boxes of Larry Wilkes transcripts from where I’d left them. I turned around to find Junior watching me.
“Are you better? I heard you were on death’s door.”
“I had the stomach flu,” I said, hoping he’d want to keep his distance.
“And you thought a little exercise might help?”
“I’m a little bored.”
“Well, let me carry those for you.” He reached out and started to take all three boxes but got a feel for their heft, and said, “Maybe just one.” He took the top box.
I led us upstairs, attempting to walk gingerly, trying to keep slightly bent over. At my bedroom door, I said, “Well, thanks. Put your box on top of the other two.”
As he did, he said, “If there’s anything else I can do…”
He’d barely done that. I backed into my room and let the door fall shut. Putting the boxes on the bed, I opened one and started flipping through trying to find Anne Whittemore’s testimony. I skipped the basic information and started reading more closely with the assistant district attorney’s question: