Page 29 of Aftermath
“No one,” I answered for the thousandth time. She wouldn’t drop it.
I took a sip of my wine, letting the crisp taste wash over my tongue.A car engine revved outside, and I startled before I could set the wine glass down, spilling a drop on the couch.
“Shit,” I muttered.
“That’s why you never should have bought a cream-colored couch,” Mallory said, her eyes never once leaving the rom-com she picked out.
“It’ll come out,” I said, more as a prayer than an answer.
I hurried to the kitchen to dig through my cabinets to find anything I could use to clean it.Random cleaning supplies rattled in my lower cabinets, and I found one that looked similar to fabric cleaner. I grabbed a paper towel from my counter and made my way back to the couch.
Mallory paid me no attention.
The stain was small, barely bigger than a quarter. I sprayed the fabric cleaner on the couch and blotted at it. Never scrub—that was the only trick I’d learned from my father growing up.
Scrubbing will only guarantee you’re stuck with the stain.His voice echoed through my head. I kept blotting until I could barely see the red anymore.
“That stuff smells like chemicals,” Mallory complained.
I couldn’t smell a thing.“It’s odorless,” I countered.
She shrugged and returned to the television.“So who is he?” she pushed again without looking at me.
“I told you, he was here to fix my computer,” I answered.
She scoffed.‘You expect me to believe that?” she asked. “Seriously, Len, give it up.”
Was there harm to telling her? If it was an active FBI case, others in town would find out too. I didn’t see the use in hiding it from Mallory.
“He’s an FBI agent,” I admitted, sitting back down on the couch.
Mallory spit out her wine, choking on the liquid.
“Mal, I just cleaned up,” I groaned.
“Back up,” she demanded. “An FBI agent!”
“He just needed some records from the museum,” I quick defended, like a suspect put on the stand.
“About what?” Mallory pushed, her full focus on me for the first time.
“The Coastal Killer,” I admitted.
“You mean the case you’re obsessed with,” she said.
“I’m not obsessed,” I defended.She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes on me.“Not obsessed,” I repeated. “It’s a case I’m working on for the museum to build an exhibit. It’s for work, Mal.”
It wasn’t lie; it was just a stretch of the truth. More than a fraction of the things out of Mallory’s mouth were an exaggeration, but I loved her for it. The world seemed brighter, livelier, the way she saw it. Her stories gave me hope that one day, I’d see the world a bit brighter, forget the past and move on.
“Your work seems to always follow you home,” she scolded. “You need a break.”
“Have you been seeing Calvin?” I prodded.
“Your brother hates me. But if he’s saying the same, then you know I’m right.”
“He does not hate you,” I countered.
“The beach mistake,” she reminded me.
