The Same Place (The Lamb and the Lion #2) - Gregory Ashe Page 0,96

but Jem didn’t think Tean would appreciate having his apartment filled with trash. Jem perched on what looked like the safest stretch of one bench and dumped the bag out across the picnic table. Then, grimacing, he ran upstairs, managed to survive Scipio’s onslaught of love and kisses, and found a pair of disposable gloves in the doc’s bathroom.

“Can you be good?” Jem asked.

Scipio was still nuzzling into him.

“Fine,” Jem said, “but remember our agreement.”

They went downstairs together, and after some initial frolicking and peeing and sniffing, Scipio lay on his side, chewing grass while Jem picked through the garbage. The bathroom junk went back into the bag, and so did the socks, the cardboard box from a LOL Doll, whatever that was, and miles and miles of shrink wrap and plastic packaging. Behind Jem, cars came and went in the parking lot, the sound of tires on asphalt and worn brakes providing a background music as he worked.

The only thing left on the table was paperwork. Most of the documents he didn’t read completely; reading still took him too long, and it was frustrating. He relied instead on the habits Tean was trying so hard to break: skimming, inferring, and best-guessing. Jem sorted the papers into three stacks. In the first stack, he placed anything that looked personal. It was a small pile: just a torn corner of a takeout menu that had $37.95 written in the corner, and a handwritten grocery list on a piece of stationery that was printed From Brigitte with love . . ., because apparently the bitch spent a lot of time sitting at her desk thinking loving thoughts and scribbling them on stationery. In the next stack, Jem placed all the documents that looked like they were from businesses. Either Brigitte or her husband obviously owned a shredder because none of the documents contained sensitive information. Most of them were junk mail, one was an official notice to Brigitte B Fitzpatrick that the fees and service charges structure for her Wells Fargo account had been updated, and one was a postcard warning YOUR FREE TRIAL IS ABOUT TO EXPIRE – DON’T LET YOUR SUBSCRIPTION TO LDS MOMS EXPIRE! Jem snorted so hard he almost hurt himself; the Mormon mommy mafia hard at work. In the third pile he placed the unopened mail, junk that Brigitte or her husband had tossed without even opening it.

The first stack told him one piece of information: the stationery meant that he could be fairly sure that Brigitte really did live at that house, and this wasn’t some elaborate ruse pulled by LouElla. The second stack told him that Brigitte had a Wells Fargo account and, possibly, that she was a practicing Mormon. It was always useful to know where people stashed their money, and religion could be a nice pressure point if Brigitte got obstinate.

He worked his way through the unopened mail piece by piece. Most of them were credit card offers targeted to Brigitte and Gerald Fitzpatrick. Two were life insurance policy scams. One was from a mortgage refinancing company. The next one he opened looked so similar to the others that he almost tossed it. Only habit made him take a second look.

This notice is for cardholder BRIGITTE BERGER FITZPATRICK. The name was in capital letters.

Jem couldn’t read the rest of it. His mom’s name, Mary B. Berger. And now this, Brigitte Berger Fitzpatrick. The words exploded into individual letters he couldn’t assemble, buzzing black swarms that wouldn’t settle into place long enough to make sense. He thought of the blond woman in her nice outfit, with her beautiful home, with two towheaded kids swimming in an inflatable pool. He’d looked right at her and hadn’t recognized her. His brain kept coming back to the pool. He wasn’t sure what a pool like that cost. Probably not that much in the big picture. But kids loved a pool like that. Two blond kids splashing and giggling. And that big home. And the perfect Mormon mommy hair and skin and clothes. And that pool.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, staring at the page, when he finally realized Scipio was growling. Jem managed to look up, instinct and old habit making him fold shut the paper he was holding.

Ammon was standing there, wearing another cheap suit, his tie loosened and flapping in the breeze. Red with a blue stripe. A power tie. He’d gotten a new haircut—almost a skin fade, the top short to hide