Triptych (Will Trent #1) - Karin Slaughter Page 0,106

and indigent to see a doctor, and it sure as shit wasn’t the uninsured and indigent. Hell, you were better off without insurance these days. You got the same crappy care but you paid less.

She skimmed a Field & Stream then a Ladies Home Journal from the Christmas before last as she waited for Gina Ormewood to show up. Michael had gone too far yesterday. He’d grinned at her like a monkey while they worked through his Vice records and now she knew why. It was one thing to fuck with Angie—hell, she probably deserved it—but the fact that he’d gotten Will upset was unforgivable. Michael must have said something, let a few words slip that told Will he’d banged Angie. She worked with men all day, arrested the fuckers, even, and she knew how their little minds worked. A second couldn’t go by without them either thinking about sex or talking about it, and the fact that Michael had fucked Angie was very good gossip. He’d probably even told that turdball Leo Donnelly. The whole squad must know by now. No wonder Will felt humiliated.

God, she had to stop listening to the girls so much. No one hated men as much as a prostitute. They spent hours talking about what lowlife scum men were, and then they had to go off with the first asshole who flashed a little green in their face. Angie had enough issues with men without starting to think about them like a whore.

The doors opened and she glanced up as a couple of guys came in. She looked back at the magazine, not really seeing the fruitcake recipe. Her head hurt with thoughts of Ormewood, the disappointment on Will’s face, the way he had looked at her the night before when she’d gently pushed him out the front door. He must have been seething when Michael started bragging about it, telling the intimate details of his conquest.

Angie flipped to a different page, a different recipe. If Michael was going to screw around with the one person Angie cared about, then she was going to give it right back to him. Nothing distracted a man more than trouble at home.

“Robin?”

Angie turned to the next page. Mother and daughter sweaters. How fucking adorable.

“Robin? Is that you?”

Shit. She looked up. John Shelley stood in front of her. He was beside a black guy whose hand was wrapped in a bloody bandage.

Tank called, “Sign in, please.”

“I’ll be back,” John told her. He took the black guy to the counter. Obviously, profuse bleeding moved you up the list because Tank took the guy right back.

John was staring at Angie. “What are you doing here?”

“Routine maintenance,” she said, indicating her lower half. “What’s up with that guy?”

“Ray-Ray,” John told her, the asshole who wanted one on credit. “He cut his hand on a piece of metal sticking out of a car. Art asked me to bring him up.”

“He gonna be okay?”

“If Art doesn’t kill him first,” John said. He seemed at a loss for words, and blurted out, “You look nice.”

She looked like a whore, but a compliment was a compliment. “I thought you were gonna stay away from me.”

“Oh.” His face fell, and for a split second, she was reminded of Will—the way he could never hide his emotions from her, the way he sometimes wore his shame and disappointment on his sleeve.

“Come here,” she said, taking John’s arm and leading him out into the hall. They stood just inside the front door. Angie could see the smokers on the other side.

She asked John, “You doing okay?”

He was smiling now, almost hopeful. “Yeah. How about you?”

“No,” she insisted. “Last time I saw you, you were in some trouble.”

He nodded, looked down at his feet. Why did she always end up talking to men who looked at their feet?

“It’s good to see you,” he said. “I know I said I was going to stay away, but it’s really nice seeing you.”

“You hardly know me.”

He smiled again. God, he had such a sweet smile. “I know about Stewie.”

He knew lies, she thought. The first of many, if history told her anything.

“You really look nice.”

“You already said that.”

John laughed. “I’m trying to think of something else to say.” He laughed again, not so much uncomfortable as really enjoying himself and her company. He looked down at his shoes again, and she saw that he had the prettiest eyelashes she had ever seen on a man. They were a soft, delicate brown. John