Page 119 of Felonies are Forever

“Shit,” I curse as I push it open, feeling my heart beat triple time. Sitting there in the basket are the towels, sheets, and the cell phone my mom said she would put inside the little house for Dutch.

I’m just about to pick it up when muffled but tense voices from the home office that James and my Dad share stop me cold. I stand still, listening.

It’s about work. It’s always about work. I know the shop has been struggling. It always has, to tell the truth, but Dad always seemed to make it work somehow. I know lately James has been pushing for changes and it’s put them at odds more than usual.

Dad raises his voice a little, angry now. Someone broke in a few weeks ago and made off with around twenty-thousand dollars of tools and parts. I take care of the books and pay most of the bills, and I knew we were behind on our insurance premiums when it happened, so the loss wasn’t covered and the tension about keeping things afloat has been pricklier than ever.

I jump back as they both come storming out of the door, brows knitted, and James shoots me a hard look. “We have to go to the shop. Did you show Dutch to the house?” He doesn’t wait for my answer before finishing, “We should be back by dinner.”

They grab their coats and storm out the back door, leaving me speechless. It’s not like James to be so gruff, let alone so rude.

The laundry basket taunts me. I peek around the corner into the kitchen to see my mother elbows-deep in mixing up a bowl of her biscuit dough, singing to her Neil Diamond playlist.

My thoughts drift back to Dutch. I did say if he needed anything to call, but he can’t call because he doesn’t have the phone.

I’ll make it quick, I tell myself.

I lean down, scooping up the basket, my heart hammering against my chest wall and my palms start to sweat. At the door, I don’t bother with my jacket. All I’m going to do is leave the basket outside the front door for him, knock and high-tail it back to the house.

Jesus, why am I so dizzy?

He’s like a testosterone sex drip that’s being fed directly into my vena cava. How am I going to be able to live here with him? No one has mentioned if there’s a cap on the time that he’s going to stay, only that they are going to have him work at the shop, where I work as well when I’m not doing my outreach runs.

Which means I’m going to be dizzy here at home, and at work, and probably even worse when he’s far away.

I stomp down the shoveled path, the fog of my hot breath leading the way, horrified at the thought there could be another drift of steam trailing out from between my legs, because it feels like a churning steam engine down there right now.

I’m mumbling affirmations of control when I get to the front door and see it’s open a few inches.

Stick to the plan. Sit the basket down and leave.

The voice in my head sounds like my mother’s. So sensible. And so, as usual, I ignore it. And peek inside the little house.

I don’t see him anywhere.

Maybe he left.

Maybe he really didn’t want to be here.

Maybe I wasn’t what he imagined.

Maybe he just needed a ride then a chance to get away.

Maybe he has a hundred other pen pals, like you hear about sometimes in the news.

Wonderful. So now I’ll be one of those women. I saw a special on them on 20/20 once.

Lifers and the Women Who Love Them.

Women fall for criminals while they are still behind bars all the time. They even marry them. Murderers, serial killers, rapists, they all get their share of admirers. It’s not a stretch to imagine Dutch with a sackful of love letters from women all over the country.

Fuck. Did I read him all wrong?

Is this some kind of long-con and I just got played? Or, not just me, but my whole family?

I pull the basket against my center, trying to keep my belly from doing cartwheels as I stand frozen to the ground, shivering, an internal battle raging as I decide what to do.

Heavy footsteps answer my thoughts. From the gap in the door, I see a flash of indigo-covered torso toward the back of the small house where the kitchen leads to the bedroom and bathroom. A warm burst of wetness spills out of me.

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