Silence.He chews.Swallows.Sets the fork down.
“You’re going to dinner with the handyman while I sit in a basement eating casserole off a concrete floor.”
“It’s not a date.It’s a work dinner.We’re discussing the renovations.”
“The renovations.”He laughs.Short.Hollow.“Which renovations, Marin?The ones where you soundproofed a basement?The ones where you plan to bolt restraints to a wall?”
“The house has a lot of needs, Charles.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re eating Mrs.Mather’s chicken and rice on a basement floor.So maybe save the moral high ground for someone who isn’t sitting in it.”
I take the plate.He’s finished most of it.I leave the water.Leave the ibuprofen.
“I’ll check on you when I get back,” I say.
“Don’t hurry on my account.”
I close the basement door.Stand at the top of the stairs.
The prayer beads are still on the kitchen counter.I pick them up.Turn them over in my hand.
Mrs.Mather thinks they’ll bring Charles peace.
I just brought him something worse.
Doubt.
41
Luke
She comes downstairs in something I haven’t seen before.Dark top, jeans that fit, boots with a heel.Her hair is down.She did something to her eyes that makes them look like a different argument than the one I’m used to losing.
“You look nice,” I say.
“You’ve only ever seen me covered in sweat or someone else’s bodily fluids.The bar was low.”
She grabs her bag.I hold the door.We walk to the truck like two people who aren’t going on a date because this isn’t a date.We’ve established that.We’re clear.
The restaurant is twenty-two minutes away.Route 9 to the county line, left on Dawson, through the stretch where the trees close in and the streetlights stop.
We’re twelve minutes in when the back window explodes.
Glass everywhere.A sound like the whole truck cracked open.Marin screams—short, sharp, cut off fast.I don’t hear the shot until after the glass is in my hair.That’s how it works.The damage arrives before the sound.
“Get down,” I say.
“What—”
I push her head down.Hold it until she stays.
She folds herself on the floorboard, hands over her head, glass in her hair.I check the rearview—cracked but intact.Black pickup.Same one.Javi’s friends.Headlights filling my cab, riding close enough that I can see the passenger leaning out the window.
Second shot.Hits the tailgate.The sound is flat and heavy, like someone dropping a hammer on sheet metal.
I punch the gas.My truck is old but it’s got a V8 and I know this road.The curve at mile marker six.The dip where the county never fixed the drainage.The straightaway after the bridge where you can open it up if you don’t care about the speed limit.
