Eighteen
I sat on my porch for a long time. I thought about Scott, Peter, Jay, Don. The only one of them who would talk to me was Don, but I didn’t want to drag him any further into this, possibly get him fired. And Nate. Apparently he was now part of the long arm of the FBI. Besides, what I’d said to Nate last night—about him being responsible in some way for Amanda’s murder—that was pretty unforgivable.
I was on my own. Which was how I usually arranged things. It was easier that way.
Or something.
Sammy called me in for dinner. Couldn’t believe it was that late. He had somehow put together a meal from what I had in the fridge. I ate it, barely noticing, and half-listened while he talked. When we were finished, he took the plates away and did the dishes.
“The house looks great,” I sa
