“That is not evidence.”
“It is enough for pie.”
Hank raised his fork from the counter.
“Tell her Captain Pancake expects a gift.”
“She is not bribing the dog.”
“He has been through a difficult period.”
“He stole two sandwiches today.”
“Coping behavior.”
I ate the pie without answering.
At home, I changed the sheets because they needed changing.
I put clean towels in the bathroom because I had laundry.
Then I stood in the spare bedroom, looked at the neatly made bed, and carried one of the pillows back to mine.
My phone buzzed.
Annie:Flight booked. Arrival 2:10. Commercial aircraft. No marching band.
A second message followed.
Annie:The hat is packed.
I saved the flight information and placed the phone on the kitchen counter.
Before going to bed, I switched on the porch light.
The front steps were uneven after dark.
I left it on.
Twenty Four
Annie
The bad hat had survived eleven months of touring, one failed disguise, and several attempts by Rachel to donate it without my consent.
It was on my head as I walked through the smallest airport terminal I had visited in years.
Rachel had wanted me to use a private exit. I had argued that taking a commercial flight and then disappearing through a private exit defeated at least part of the exercise.
We compromised on a side corridor normally used for delayed passengers and people attempting to recover lost musical instruments.
It was not exactly normal travel, but nobody photographed me, and the airport employee who escorted me only asked for an autograph after we reached the baggage claim.
Progress remained uneven.
My suitcase rolled behind me with a wounded clicking sound. One wheel had suffered an incident somewhere between New York and Florida and now resisted every left turn.
I could have replaced it.
