Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“And Burian Petrov?” Angie gasped, and her eyes filled fast.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?”
She caught her breath and straightened up from her slouch next to me on the island. “My friend Gin Alstead, she was there in Chicago with her husband a year ago, and she was killed by Burian Petrov when he was leaving a hotel with some of his people. He was shooting at someone else, but…he got her.”
“Oh shit, I’m so sorry,” I soothed her, straightening up and lifting my good arm.
She leaned in, careful not to hurt me, and wrapped me tightly in her arms. “We had our kids at the same time, we took them to school together, we both dealt with feeling like shit for going back to work and leaving them, and we just—we leaned on each other like sisters.”
I stayed quiet, letting her tell me the story.
“She was amazing, Jed, you would have—everyone just loved her.”
Gently, I gave her a little squeeze.
“She went to Chicago for the weekend to surprise her husband who was there on a business trip, and instead, he ended up identifying her body. He was so broken, he moved home to live with his folks, took his kids away from Gin’s folks and me and my kids and all our friends… And I get it, I totally do, he needed his family, but there was a sense of community that we lost, and my kids still miss hers, and these people die in shoot-outs… No one thinks about the collateral damage.”
Zach walked into the room then, checking, I was sure, to see what was taking his wife so long getting water.
Angie sniffled and used one hand to wipe at her eyes. “Jed caught Burian Petrov in Chicago this last Monday. That’s why he’s hurt.”
“Are you kidding?” His eyes narrowed, and I understood that he didn’t want any of us to see him cry.
She shook her head.
Zach crossed the room quickly and took hold of my good shoulder. “You and your partner here saved my kids, and now you get justice for a friend. What’s next?”
“We have big plans for tomorrow,” Bodhi apprised him, and everyone laughed.
SEVEN
Meredith arrived in the morning when I was barely awake and having coffee in the kitchen. I had planned to sleep in, but Stella slipped into my room around six thirty to tell me she was going to make pancakes. Since I didn’t know if that was actually in her wheelhouse, I rolled out of bed, sent her to the kitchen, peed, and then staggered out there. It was her and me only, and I asked her where her father was.
“Snoring in bed. I didn’t notice until this morning.”
She kept chatting while I looked for what I needed to make coffee. It was a chef’s kitchen, really fancy, with lots of cupboards and drawers and accessories, but eventually I found a coffee machine and bags of whole beans. I missed my Keurig—and I could have one, even though Bodhi had disapproved, because I recycled the pods.
Stella found me the grinder, and once that was done, we hunted for filters, found some, and I finally got the coffee going.
“Thank God,” I groaned when I could smell it brewing.
Stella then started making the pancakes, and really, she was much better at measuring ingredients than I was—and was a disciple of the clean-as-you-go school of thought to boot.
I watched her with one eye, and when it was time to flip the pancakes, I was very impressed with how she did that. She tested to make sure it wasn’t sticky, then using the lid of the pan, slid the pancake onto it, then turned the pancake easily, putting it back in the skillet.
“That was pretty good,” I told her.
She nodded. “I used to flip the pan, but sometimes if you forget and put too much butter, then the butter comes out, and we almost had a fire one time at home.”
“Got it.”
“Mom says no pan-flipping.”
“Well, using the skillet lid is smart.”
“And I know we gotta wash the lid now too, but that’s okay.”
“It is okay, and since you’re cooking, I’ll wash.”
“But you only have one arm.”
“I’ll wash,” Bodhi said, joining us in the kitchen, looking as bleary and sleep-deprived as I did at seven thirty in the morning. “Is there coffee?”
“Jed made it.”
“Oh God, it’ll be like crude oil.”
Stella thought that was hysterical.
“Just drink it and shut yer pie hole,” I told him.
“That wasn’t shut up exactly, but it was still naughty,” Stella assured me.
I gave her a shrug. “Do I get eggs and bacon too?”
“You can have plant bacon, but we can’t eat piggies. They’re super smart and cute.”
I looked at Bodhi, who bit the inside of his cheek so he wouldn’t laugh.
“Fine. Where’s the fake meat?”
Bodhi had to help her, and when the three of us sat at the island, she showed us her new Zelda game on her Switch, and then Bodhi showed me the confirmation on his phone that Stoker was home in Denver, talking to the police there, and that they appreciated our reports. I had written mine before I passed out last night, and Bodhi had apparently done his at the same time.