the guys back to work, and we were finished an hour later. It was actually a lot of fun to be there by myself, doing the work myself, building my own stories from the evidence. I had no other demands on me except to do what I did best. The noise of the powered entrenching tool aside—and it was an earsplitting racket—just helped hide me in my own blissful little world, which was more precious than ever. Never doubt the benefits of denial.
It even had the benefit of annoying Claire Bellamy across the street, who’d been a thorn in my side before this. Bray had straightened her out—I had no idea how—and she no longer protested my every move on the site. When I saw her glowering at me, I waved to her, shrugged, and held my hand up to my ears, shaking my head. We’d be done soon enough and then she and her pampered dogs could return to their carefully considered lifestyles. The dogs, Monet and Matisse, were giant standard poodles, black as coal and possessed of sinister demeanors. I was pretty sure they had it out for me, though Bucky assured me that they were just big intelligent dogs with too little to keep them amused.
I finished up, and was surprised to see that the alarm guys were packing it in for the day. Pikers. I could have gone on for hours, even in an area as unpromising as this, the dirt smelled so good.
I was delighted to find that my stomach was growling. I was really hungry, for the first time in what felt like weeks. To hell with Brian’s lectures about fast food: besides, the entire time we were in San Diego we were running from Jack in the Box to Rubio’s, all in the name of recapturing his California junk-food fantasies. And his mother cooked like a dream, so this made even less sense to me.
I was hungry, and by God, I was going to celebrate that fact with fries and a Big Mac.
I snaked through the drive-through, got my order, and pulled over. Wondering briefly what the guy at the window would have said if I’d tried to order it “animal style” the way Brian did at In-N-Out, I opened the box the way that Indiana Jones might have opened the Ark, with awe and reverence. The smell almost made me weep—it was late enough in the day that they’d had to make the burger fresh, and the grease was still sizzling. I took a big bite, feeling the lettuce and sauce squish out the back of the sandwich and onto my jeans. I didn’t care, grabbed a fistful of fries, scooped up the sauce, and jammed them in my mouth. Mmmm-mmm, I was humming along as I munched, and the old prayer came back to me: “Some would eat, and have no meat, and some can’t eat that have it. But we have meat, and we can eat, and so the Lord be thanked.” I swallowed a big sip of Coke and hiccupped, giggling to myself.
My cell phone rang. I glanced at the screen—so much more high tech than my home phones—and I saw a New Hampshire number I didn’t recognize.
Huh. “Hello?”
No one answered.
“Hello? Someone there?”
Still nothing.
Just as I was going to end the call, I heard low laughter. A man’s voice, I was willing to bet. The skin crawled along my back.
“Look, I don’t know who this is, but the police are involved, they’re looking for you, don’t—”
I knew as soon as the words left my lips how inane I sounded. The laughter didn’t stop, and cold, I finally found the “end call” button. I pressed the call log, found that the caller’s name was withheld.
The sight of the food on my lap, the smell of the salt and grease, made my stomach contract. The thought of actually eating was now revolting. I bundled it up, got out of the car, and threw out the remainder, then rolled down all of the windows to get the smell out faster.
I had to give my old ex Duncan a call to find out how the weather was in New Hampshire and just how badly he’d taken the loss of the job he blamed me for.
I drove home in a haze, climbed to my office, my good mood blown. I found my ASAA phone directory and called Duncan.
“Hello?”
“Duncan, it’s Emma Fielding.”
There was a long pause. “Hello, Emma,” he said cautiously.
“So just how big a