When Attorney Lawless called, I took the job.
Either Malone was wrapped up in business and would get back to me, or he’d already left for California. His leaving was a foregone conclusion, so there was no need for me to wait around the apartment and mope for him—especially not when I could make a cool hundred and fifty an hour working for Attorney Lawless.
So I hired Addie to take care of Brené Brown—the kitten, not the author, professor, podcaster, and shame researcher—and I loaded up the Corolla to go to scenic rural Alabama. Was it my first choice for a vacation? Absolutely not.
But then again, I wasn’t on vacation.
Even worse? It required camping.
I could tolerate being stuck in a motor vehicle for hours on end better than your average person. As an only child, I’d learned to amuse myself at a very young age. No brothers and sisters for me. Three elementary schools in six years, so I didn’t have the same attachment to my peers as many friends my age. My mother was often gone. Nana was exhausted, and Aunt Edna was, well, a battle-ax.
So, while on stakeout, I remembered the lessons of my youth. I sang songs, listened to audiobooks, dictated fan fiction, debated with myself. Whatever it took.
But camping?
I supposed the bathroom question was a bit easier with camping, since I could usually pop a squat without taking my eyes off my target, but it was still fraught with the possibility of bugbites or thorns or bears. I also had to slather on Skin So Soft to keep the mosquitoes away and keep vinegar and water on hand to get rid of the ants because camping meant sleeping on the ground. Thus I didn’t do much sleeping. And the worst part was no campfire, which meant no s’mores. You can’t have smoke and a fire when you’re hiding out in the bushes. Especially not when you’re in a wildlife-management area to avoid trespassing but technically it’s not camping season, so you’d have to play dumb if caught.
Or, even worse, pretend to have a fondness for birdwatching in general and the red-cockaded woodpecker in particular.
TL;DR: I hate camping.
While sitting in the woods on the side of a mountain in Alabama, I attempted to ascertain whether a mother had transported her kids over state lines in violation of a custody agreement. Normally, I would’ve also done some research for my other cases, but reception was nonexistent rather than spotty.
In fact, I thought I might lobby Attorney Lawless for a bonus for this particular job because I was surrounded by poison ivy. To date, I’d been one of those lucky individuals who didn’t seem to be allergic tothe vine, but if I ended up in a bathtub full of oatmeal followed by a liberal dousing of calamine, I would demand recompense.
Sadly, this wasn’t the first time I’d found myself surveilling a dilapidated trailer in the hinterlands between Cedartown, Georgia, and Piedmont, Alabama. It was very much as I’d suspected: A number of people were coming and going—quite a few for a spot in the middle of nowhere. They also weren’t staying very long. I could only conclude that our client’s wife was shacking up with a drug dealer of some sort, probably meth.
Eventually, the mother emerged from the dingy trailer I’d been surveilling with her two children in tow. I snapped pictures that included the mailbox. It wouldn’t be hard to pinpoint the exact location. Was it mere miles over the Georgia-Alabama state line? Yes. Did that still count as transporting children over state lines without the other parent’s permission? Also yes. Did those children need to stay as far away from that trailer before it blew to high heaven? Most emphatic yes yet.
As I drove back to Marietta, I had to concede, however grudgingly, that at least my mother had never taken me to a meth lab. Skip’s owner hadn’t been a bad guy. He might’ve been a good stepdad. All these years I’d been resentful of how she’d left me at Nana’s house, but looking through a telephoto lens at the shell-shocked expressions of children leaving a dilapidated trailer had left me with a new appreciation for the serenity of Nana’s house. Aunt Edna wasn’t the menace of my childhood she had once been.
Maybe my mother had been doing the best she could. After all, she was little more than a child herself when she had me.
But she’d said some things to me, things she couldn’t erase by sending me articles about not fearing my fortieth birthday. Maybe she had fearedherfortieth birthday, but I didn’t fear mine.
Currently didn’t feel too great about it, but I didn’t fear it. One would probably have to have access to all one’s emotions to fear something, and according to Brené Brown—the author, not the cat—I’d put up all kinds of emotional shields.
But remembering my self-help book reminded me that Malone had read it, and that brought up the interesting idea that the universe could be trying to tell me something about him.
If I stuck my fingers in my ears and sang “la la la” loudly enough, would the universe hush?
Or you could give Malone a chance since he’s nothing like Ken or your father.
And how exactly did I know that? I’d known Ken for almost twenty years, and he’d managed to pull the rug out from under me. As for my father, he changed after marrying Mom. People changed all the time, so even if Malone were perfect right now, there were no guarantees he wouldn’t become a person I didn’t like.
A mosquito bit me, and I’d never been happier to be attacked by one of the bloodsuckers because at least it interrupted my thoughts.
Chapter 20
Friday afternoon I came back to the apartment complex after completing two other surveillance jobs, serving three sets of papers, and thoroughly avoiding Malone while I ruminated on our arrangement.
On the one hand, I’d already agreed. Instinct told me fun would indeed be had by all if I joined Malone for some hot monkey sex. On the other hand, best not to start something with Malone that he had no intention of finishing. I wished I could say I could be casual, but it didn’t seem to be in my nature.
You could try casual. Other people seem to do just fine with one-night stands.
I was still arguing with myself as I walked up to the apartment building. Malone’s patio door was open, as was his apartment door. My heart sank to the asphalt between my toes. Was he moving out already? Had I missed my chance?
A quick peek into his apartment showed Malone looking at his phone while swatting away bugs. It was an infestation of some kind. One of the bugs in question flew past me with a flutter of wings. Another landed on my arm.
