to blow a valve or something.
“So you want me to go ahead and come?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“I’ll be right there.”
I hung up without saying good-bye and looked around the kitchen. It was as if an explosive device had gone off in the pantry. Cans, boxes, and bags lay in piles where they’d landed. A package of spaghetti had broken when I tossed it, scattering pasta pick-up sticks on the kitchen floor.
And over there, on the other side of the kitchen, the water heater was gleaming white and spotless, the closet completely devoid of even microscopic traces of dust. The mouse droppings were gone, the hole covered with a plastic Cool Whip lid and duct tape.
The water heater still didn’t work, mind you, but it was clean.
This is the problem with mission creep. All that work and still no hot water.
I stepped over the pantry debris and went to the bedroom and picked out an outfit. Frayed bellbottom jeans, an orange turtleneck, and my purple Doc Martens, which I know my father hates. That’s how mature I am. On my thirty-fifth birthday.
Could be time to go back to therapy.
6
I was backing out of my garage when Detective Jackson pulled his navy blue Impala into the driveway behind me.
He got out of his car and walked over to the truck. I cranked my window down.
“Morning, Dr. Foster,” he said, in the same deadpan voice he might have used to say, “Stand against that wall over there and place this hood over your head.”
“Good morning, Detective Jackson.” I faked a smile. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“On your way out?”
No. I like to sit in my driveway with my truck running and my reverse lights on.
I put a crowbar in my personality and tried to be cordial. “I’m meeting my father for lunch,” I said sweetly.
“I need a minute of your time.”
“I’m forty-five minutes late already.”
“I need a minute of your time.” He wasn’t asking.
I turned off the ignition, and my truck engine sputtered to a stop.
He followed me to the house and stepped into the foyer with me. I hadn’t realized until that moment that the blood was still there. In my zest to eradicate the mouse plague and sterilize theoutside of my water heater, I’d forgotten to scrub the streaked traces of murder off my walls.
Mission creep strikes again.
I stepped past the stains without acknowledging them and led him into the living room.
“I really only have a minute,” I said.
“Have a seat.” He motioned to the couch and set a three-ring notebook on the coffee table in front of me.
“We found a body last night,” he said. Still no emotion at all from the man. He might as well have been reciting his grocery list.
“I know.”
He waited for me to explain.
“It was in the paper this morning. Drew Sturdivant.”
“I have some photographs for you to look at,” he said.
Surely he wasn’t going to show me pictures of the murder scene. I started to protest as he opened the notebook, but was surprised to see six mug shots instead.
“I’d like you to tell me if you recognize any of these men,” he said. “Take your time.”
A row of faces stared up at me from my coffee table. Pale, angry faces, with stubble beards, greasy unkempt hair, and hate in their eyes.
I studied them, peering at their dead expressions, wondering what their stories were. How had these men, these human beings, one by one, made their way from the promise of fresh-born, bright-eyed infancy to the pages of a mug-shot book? At what point on their journeys did they lose their way?
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Detective Jackson watching me. I closed the cover and looked up at him.
“Not a one,” I said. “I’ve never seen any of them before. Why?”
He ignored my question and opened the book again.
“No one on this page?”
I looked again. “Nope.”
“You’re positive?”
“I told you. I don’t recognize any of them.”
He closed the book. “We’ve accounted for your activities at the
“So you want me to go ahead and come?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“I’ll be right there.”
I hung up without saying good-bye and looked around the kitchen. It was as if an explosive device had gone off in the pantry. Cans, boxes, and bags lay in piles where they’d landed. A package of spaghetti had broken when I tossed it, scattering pasta pick-up sticks on the kitchen floor.
And over there, on the other side of the kitchen, the water heater was gleaming white and spotless, the closet completely devoid of even microscopic traces of dust. The mouse droppings were gone, the hole covered with a plastic Cool Whip lid and duct tape.
The water heater still didn’t work, mind you, but it was clean.
This is the problem with mission creep. All that work and still no hot water.
I stepped over the pantry debris and went to the bedroom and picked out an outfit. Frayed bellbottom jeans, an orange turtleneck, and my purple Doc Martens, which I know my father hates. That’s how mature I am. On my thirty-fifth birthday.
Could be time to go back to therapy.
6
I was backing out of my garage when Detective Jackson pulled his navy blue Impala into the driveway behind me.
He got out of his car and walked over to the truck. I cranked my window down.
“Morning, Dr. Foster,” he said, in the same deadpan voice he might have used to say, “Stand against that wall over there and place this hood over your head.”
“Good morning, Detective Jackson.” I faked a smile. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“On your way out?”
No. I like to sit in my driveway with my truck running and my reverse lights on.
I put a crowbar in my personality and tried to be cordial. “I’m meeting my father for lunch,” I said sweetly.
“I need a minute of your time.”
“I’m forty-five minutes late already.”
“I need a minute of your time.” He wasn’t asking.
I turned off the ignition, and my truck engine sputtered to a stop.
He followed me to the house and stepped into the foyer with me. I hadn’t realized until that moment that the blood was still there. In my zest to eradicate the mouse plague and sterilize theoutside of my water heater, I’d forgotten to scrub the streaked traces of murder off my walls.
Mission creep strikes again.
I stepped past the stains without acknowledging them and led him into the living room.
“I really only have a minute,” I said.
“Have a seat.” He motioned to the couch and set a three-ring notebook on the coffee table in front of me.
“We found a body last night,” he said. Still no emotion at all from the man. He might as well have been reciting his grocery list.
“I know.”
He waited for me to explain.
“It was in the paper this morning. Drew Sturdivant.”
“I have some photographs for you to look at,” he said.
Surely he wasn’t going to show me pictures of the murder scene. I started to protest as he opened the notebook, but was surprised to see six mug shots instead.
“I’d like you to tell me if you recognize any of these men,” he said. “Take your time.”
A row of faces stared up at me from my coffee table. Pale, angry faces, with stubble beards, greasy unkempt hair, and hate in their eyes.
I studied them, peering at their dead expressions, wondering what their stories were. How had these men, these human beings, one by one, made their way from the promise of fresh-born, bright-eyed infancy to the pages of a mug-shot book? At what point on their journeys did they lose their way?
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Detective Jackson watching me. I closed the cover and looked up at him.
“Not a one,” I said. “I’ve never seen any of them before. Why?”
He ignored my question and opened the book again.
“No one on this page?”
I looked again. “Nope.”
“You’re positive?”
“I told you. I don’t recognize any of them.”
He closed the book. “We’ve accounted for your activities at the
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