damn thing was real, Patrick (and deep down you do), then we must now address the next two obvious questions, regardless of how hard you’re trying to shove them into the back of your mind:
Whose finger was it, and how the HELL did it get inside your bait container? It’s not like the Styrofoam had been packed on an assembly line, where quality control might miss a small rodent, some broken glass, the odd finger…
Did Edgar do it? He would have certainly had enough time to plant the thing when you took Caleb to the bathroom. But hold on, dummy—he had all the time in the world to plant it before you even GOT to the store. So that makes no sense.
The guy with the Penn State hat? How fucking ironic would THAT be? No. Edgar was there the whole time. I think he would have spoken up if someone put a goddamn finger in our bait container while we were in the bathroom.
But wait…Edgar WAS acting strange when we returned.
No. Stop it, dummy. This is absurd. You don’t have any answers and your paranoia is getting the best of you. Certainly understandable given recent events, yes? Yes. You’re being paranoid.
But there is one thing you do know, isn’t there? You WILL keep sticking with the rubber finger theory, won’t you? You’ll stick to it and make it damn good for Amy’s sake. Solve the mystery on your own time if you want, but for right now, ignorance will be today’s special. In fact, why not take a big serving of what you’ve been feeding Amy? All this crazy shit so far…it has to be nothing but good old-fashioned bad luck, right? HAS to be. Things like this just don’t happen on purpose. No way. So swallow it down and try not to choke, Sherlock.
“I’m certain it was, baby,” he said. He patted the back of his neck, walked towards Amy, kissed her lightly on the lips. “We have a wonderful night ahead of us. Let’s not let a silly thing like this ruin it.”
She hugged him tight. “It was a sick joke?”
He squeezed her back and replied, “It was.”
“Whoever did it should be beaten.”
“They should.”
“We won’t let it ruin our night.”
“We won’t.”
“I feel better,” she said.
“I’m glad.”
She lifted her head off his chest, looked up and kissed him. “I love you.”
“You should.”
* * *
Amy was wearing a white, form-fitting dress that flaunted every curve of her impressive figure. Her long dark hair was still damp from her recent shower and gave off the combined scent of flowers and fruit.
She leaned forward at the waist, her stomach flat against the edge of the sink, applying makeup with a critical eye in the bathroom mirror.
Patrick walked by the bathroom in dark slacks and a white button-down that was neither tucked nor buttoned just yet. He paused when he got a good look at his wife.
“Sweet mother of…” he drooled. He entered the bathroom, stood behind his wife, and wrapped his arms around her waist.
Amy put her eyeliner down and smiled at her husband’s reflection. “You like?” she asked.
“Me love.”
“I’m gonna blow my hair out the way you like,” she smiled.
“Mmmmmm…” Patrick leaned in and kissed her neck. “Perhaps we should skip dinner altogether.”
“What, you didn’t get enough last night?”
“I will never get enough of you.” He dropped down and sunk his teeth into her butt.
She let out a yelp, giggled, turned and punched him in the chest. “Get out of here, I need to get ready.”
As Patrick turned to leave, Carrie and Caleb appeared at the bathroom door. Caleb was holding two flat rocks. He went to hand them to his father but Carrie pushed him aside.
“I can’t find Oscar,” she said.
“Carrie, please don’t push your brother like that,” Patrick said.
Caleb attempted a return shove but Carrie shrugged him off as though he wasn’t there. Her eyes stayed fixed on her father. “He’s been gone since we went fishing. I keep calling for him…”
Probably off somewhere, barfing up the finger he ate this afternoon, Patrick thought.
Amy, who had gone back to attending to her face in the mirror said, “He’ll come back when he’s hungry, honey. You and your brother need to get ready to go to the Mitchell’s.”
Carrie looked down at her attire—a faded Hannah Montana T-shirt and a pair of dirty jeans—then back up at her mother with an odd look. “I am ready.”
Amy kept one eye on the mirror while the other stole a quick glance at her