ahead. Wondered whether she could live with what they would find. They were getting closer to Smithfield. Closer to where she had been when she’d awakened from her fog. And, for good or ill, closer to maybe finding some answers.
CHAPTER NINE
ONLY A FEW PEOPLE CALLED George Maggert by the name on his driver’s license. Most called him Chops. He was fine with that. He understood where the name came from, how he’d earned it. And he had earned it. The first few times he’d heard it, he didn’t like it and had made that fact plain to the person who’d said it. But he soon realized that whenever he heard the name, it was being spoken with either respect or fear, depending on the speaker and the circumstances, and that worked for him. He had not only come to like it, but he actually started thinking of himself as Chops. He even tried now, whenever the situation allowed, to do things to make sure that no one forgot that name.
He washed his hands at the sink, being very careful to clean under his fingernails. After he dried off, he slipped out of his coveralls and left his workroom, pulling the door shut behind him and locking it with a dead bolt. He walked through the outer room of this two-room workspace, where he kept a few tools, a computer, and some file cabinets—all of which made his contractor business seem completely legitimate. Anyone taking a casual look around this little office could believe that he derived all of his income from general contracting work, rather than a mere 25 percent.
Once outside, he walked across half an acre of green lawn—well, he noticed, it was brown in a few places . . . grubs, maybe . . . he’d have to do something about that—toward a contemporary house he shared with two of the handful of people in the world who didn’t call him Chops. One called him George, and had since they’d first met six years ago, and the other called him Daddy, which she had done since she started talking two years ago.
Chops climbed the steps to the back door, noticing yet again that the second stair was starting to rot. It wouldn’t do for someone who was supposed to be a contractor to let his own house fall into disrepair. He’d have to replace the board.
He entered the kitchen to find his daughter, Julia, sitting at the table in her pink booster chair, buttered toast cut into tiny little pieces spread out on the plate in front of her. He could see that it was the plate with the clown on it, her favorite. A matching sippy cup sat beside it.
Rachel turned from the stove with a sausage-and-cheese omelet on a plate.
“This okay?” she asked, looking up at him. She had no choice but to look up, even though at six feet she was the tallest woman Chops had ever dated, because he still had five inches on her. He sometimes thought her height was half the reason he’d married her. The other half was that he loved her. And she loved him. He could tell. He had no idea why. He wasn’t a handsome man by any stretch of the imagination. Not even close. He was too tall. He wished his eyes were a little closer together. And for some reason he just couldn’t hold a tan, even living in Southern California. But still, Rachel had fallen in love with him, which was a cause of endless wonder for him. It wasn’t as though she was a head-turner or anything like that, but she was definitely the Beauty to his Beast. He didn’t feel deserving of her love. And not merely because they weren’t a good match in the looks department. No, it was because of other things about him . . . things his wife didn’t know. He often wondered if she would still love him if she knew those things. He hoped he would never have to find out. But she did love him and he was grateful for that.
“Perfect,” he said. “I was in the mood for an omelet.”
She smiled. “You eating with us?”
“Wish I could, but I have paperwork to catch up on. I’ll take this out back.”
“You’re out there early today. It’s not even
CHAPTER NINE
ONLY A FEW PEOPLE CALLED George Maggert by the name on his driver’s license. Most called him Chops. He was fine with that. He understood where the name came from, how he’d earned it. And he had earned it. The first few times he’d heard it, he didn’t like it and had made that fact plain to the person who’d said it. But he soon realized that whenever he heard the name, it was being spoken with either respect or fear, depending on the speaker and the circumstances, and that worked for him. He had not only come to like it, but he actually started thinking of himself as Chops. He even tried now, whenever the situation allowed, to do things to make sure that no one forgot that name.
He washed his hands at the sink, being very careful to clean under his fingernails. After he dried off, he slipped out of his coveralls and left his workroom, pulling the door shut behind him and locking it with a dead bolt. He walked through the outer room of this two-room workspace, where he kept a few tools, a computer, and some file cabinets—all of which made his contractor business seem completely legitimate. Anyone taking a casual look around this little office could believe that he derived all of his income from general contracting work, rather than a mere 25 percent.
Once outside, he walked across half an acre of green lawn—well, he noticed, it was brown in a few places . . . grubs, maybe . . . he’d have to do something about that—toward a contemporary house he shared with two of the handful of people in the world who didn’t call him Chops. One called him George, and had since they’d first met six years ago, and the other called him Daddy, which she had done since she started talking two years ago.
Chops climbed the steps to the back door, noticing yet again that the second stair was starting to rot. It wouldn’t do for someone who was supposed to be a contractor to let his own house fall into disrepair. He’d have to replace the board.
He entered the kitchen to find his daughter, Julia, sitting at the table in her pink booster chair, buttered toast cut into tiny little pieces spread out on the plate in front of her. He could see that it was the plate with the clown on it, her favorite. A matching sippy cup sat beside it.
Rachel turned from the stove with a sausage-and-cheese omelet on a plate.
“This okay?” she asked, looking up at him. She had no choice but to look up, even though at six feet she was the tallest woman Chops had ever dated, because he still had five inches on her. He sometimes thought her height was half the reason he’d married her. The other half was that he loved her. And she loved him. He could tell. He had no idea why. He wasn’t a handsome man by any stretch of the imagination. Not even close. He was too tall. He wished his eyes were a little closer together. And for some reason he just couldn’t hold a tan, even living in Southern California. But still, Rachel had fallen in love with him, which was a cause of endless wonder for him. It wasn’t as though she was a head-turner or anything like that, but she was definitely the Beauty to his Beast. He didn’t feel deserving of her love. And not merely because they weren’t a good match in the looks department. No, it was because of other things about him . . . things his wife didn’t know. He often wondered if she would still love him if she knew those things. He hoped he would never have to find out. But she did love him and he was grateful for that.
“Perfect,” he said. “I was in the mood for an omelet.”
She smiled. “You eating with us?”
“Wish I could, but I have paperwork to catch up on. I’ll take this out back.”
“You’re out there early today. It’s not even
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