Stranger in the Room: A Novel by Amanda Kyle Williams Page A

Rauser’s big shoes on my hardwood floors. He gives in to her neurosis most of the time and tries not to stomp. Or he removes his size-twelves when he comes in.
    “I was hitting it pretty hard last night, Keye. It’s not my usual. I swear. I’ll take really great care of her. And I appreciate you letting me stay. It means a lot.”
    “Where’s the coke?”
    “It’s gone. Look, I was out with friends. We had dinner, drank, did some coke. I had a little left. That’s all.”
    “Great,” I said, but I’d already decided to call Mother and have her check up on both Miki and my surly feline. Miki had freely admitted to drinking and drugging before seeing the man in her window. If there had been a man at her window. Most people who use stimulants also use pills to come down. No telling what else was in her system. And then there was the thing with Marko and the food. She’d seemed completely stumped, like she’d really forgotten she’d called the restaurant. None of it was sitting well with me.
    I looked at the time display on my phone. “I have to get moving. Somebody blew a court date.” I went to the couch and put my shoes on. “I need to pick them up.”
    Miki followed me. “A bail jumper? I want to come. I’ll get my camera.”
    “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
    “Oh come on. Don’t you want company? I’ll turn the stove off and we’ll go.”
    I was silent.
    “Keye, look at me. I’m clear as a bell.”
    If that was true we wouldn’t have a dinner tray from the restaurant sitting in the kitchen. I looked up into her blue eyes. I fully intended to tell her she absolutely could not come. But she had that caged-animal look. I knew it well. “Okay, but you have to do what I say. I’m serious. This is my work.”
    Miki kissed my forehead. “I’ll behave. I promise.” She skipped off down the hall to get her equipment. “Is it dangerous?” she called from the guest room.
    “Only if you’re afraid of boogers.”

   6
    T he hours between five and seven are great for bond enforcement. Southerners never seem to think things can go wrong at supper-time. People are just getting in from work and preparing dinner. They’ve left the outside world behind and walked into the safety of their homes. It had been a sacred time in our household growing up. No one shows up at your door during those hours unless they want a seat at the table. It’s just common decency. No business. No solicitors. No telephone calls. My parents had been fanatical about this. Mother was passionate about cooking, and if she spent all day doing it just to see our faces light up, our faces better be at the table and friggin’ lit up on time or she would throw a full-on fit. And Emily Street could really pitch one.
    We pulled into the Sunshine Duplexes in Chamblee near I-285 in the scarred-up ’97 Neon I use when I don’t want to make a big splash. The dented hood was an unrepaired reminder that texting while driving is irretrievably stupid. It was a low-income area, ethnically diverse, with a heavy concentration of Korean, Vietnamese, and Hispanic immigrants who had gathered near Buford Highway, the strip in Atlanta for just about any kind of authentic flavor you’re craving, from Japanese to Ethiopian and everything in between. And it was a good place to find honest employment if your English or your green card wouldn’t hold up.
    “So what did this guy do?” Miki wanted to know. She had her camera hanging around her neck.
    I gave her the short version and omitted certain details involving Wriggles’s attempted transfer of DNA. “He robbed a convenience store.”
    She was checking her camera. The light was still good and would be for a while. She leaned out the window with the camera to her eye. So much for keeping a low profile. A group of boys with baseball gloves and a bat were playing on the crumbling pavement. There was no green space at all. The entire complex was paved, cracked, forgotten. “This is