“Until then?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll do my best not to get shot at or chased by anyone who looks like a mall-walking gangbanger.”
“A girl has been murdered. Things are getting serious.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re a civilian—”
“Get out of my bed, Detective. Shower is that way, if you’re interested. There’s food down the street. As for me, I don’t require a babysitter. I have my own life to tend to.”
“Is it because Paul died?” Lotham asks me, his voice softer, genuinely curious. “And now you can’t trust anyone?”
I lean forward slightly. “Or maybe, because I can’t trust anyone, Paul died.”
I climb off the bed, turning my back on the detective, and stripping off clothes. He wants to take in the show, that’s his problem. I have work to do.
I pull on jeans, find a fresh T-shirt. And maybe, because the universe has its own sense of humor, the one I grab happens to be a faded red shirt with the stick figure of a happy camper standing in front of an old VW bus and distant mountains. Life Is Good. Paul gave it to me to celebrate three months sober, when we officially inaugurated our burgeoning relationship by going camping. The cotton is worn with age, a soft caress against my skin.
I don’t look at Lotham. I grab my tennis shoes, head for the door. He doesn’t call me back. Which is good, as I rat-a-tat down the stairs and into bright daylight.
Sun is still shining. The world still spinning.
And Angelique Badeau is still missing.
I get to work.