6
An Intrepid Hound
Three almost blissful days passed. Sure, I occasionally thought of Patrick-Elvis. And, yes, I might have driven by his house in a stalkerish manner in hopes of seeing him entering or exiting his home—preferably all in one piece and showing no signs of ill treatment or illness. And I might have obsessively checked the Tiaras website for updates on the shows he had scheduled, all of which had been canceled.
But other than that, those three days were worry-free and wonderful. So worry-free that the tension in my shoulders and lower back had begged for a hot bath.
So here I sat in my bath, surrounded by bubbles and wondering if I’d done the right thing in walking away from the Patrick-Elvis problem. Or, if Wembley was right, and other people’s lives—especially the very
