On the ride back to Albany, we stop at a roadside diner for what Sam describes as “a quick lunch.” The quick lunch is my idea since I need to catch a breath and get my thoughts together before facing the cops. Sam indulges in a cheeseburger and fries. The man’s appetite knows no bounds, yet somehow his six-pack abs maintain the appearance of having been photo-shopped. Men and their metabolism and my never-ending jealousy. That stuff the politicians and feminists say about the sexes being equal is bullshit.
I sip on a cup of chicken soup, but even that makes me nauseous.
Sam looks me in the eye. “I’m tempted to take you straight to the emergency room when we’re done with the cops,” he says. “Seems like you’re always in pain lately. That’s not normal, Bec.”
In my head, I see the blood
