"You prefer small-town police work over the FBI?" I asked. I needed to slow down on the mac and cheese. I was upset after what I'd seen upstairs and emotional eating always seems to add twice as many inches to my thighs. Which means twice as long a workout to remove those inches.
"They're very different. The FBI was my dream job and I learned a lot. But that's over now."
There was a story here, one he wasn't about to share with a stranger. This was a scarred man and I sure did wonder why.
2
A half hour later, I returned to my home in the West University area, anxious to scan the poor copy of my card so I could enhance and enlarge the writing, but unfortunately my aunt Caroline's Cadillac pulled into my driveway right behind me. Great. What did she want?
But she got right to the point. "We need to talk about your sister, Abigail," she said as she got out of her car. Then she marched past me and opened the back gate. "You need to keep this gate locked. I hope you haven't left the house unlocked, too."
I silently counted to ten and smiled. "Nice you could drop by."
I unlocked the back door, which prompted, "At least you have some sense" from my aunt. We walked through the mudroom and into the kitchen.
"Where have you been, by the way?" She dropped her latest Prada handbag on the oak kitchen table. "I drove by at least five times."
"Out on business, if that's okay with you." It wasn't really business. I had no client, but she didn't need to know that.
"Oh. You mean snooping around and getting yourself in trouble again. I wondered if you'd perhaps met Katherine for lunch."
"Sorry, no. And 'snooping around,' as you call it, happens to be my job. Can I get you something to drink?" I was getting better at letting her remarks pass without too much sarcasm. Besides, I was wondering if she was sick. I'd noticed that sweat had beaded along her snowy hairline, which was puzzling. She'd been in her very air-conditioned luxury car, after all.