XIII-2
387 Words
She turned onto the interstate when her husband called. His dark, mustached face appeared on screen and she sighed.
She didn’t want to talk to him now. She’d reserved the drive home for silence and introspection, trying to process everything that had happened, a painful reminder that she had failed. She’d have to go home to him, and maybe they’d really have to talk for real about quitting.
She put the phone to her ear.
“Hey, babe. I’m driving.”
“Where are you?” Demetrius asked. His voice was gruff, a tone that pervaded his voice after an interrogation. One that had not gone well.
“I had to get away.”
“You’re not mad about what I told you earlier?” he asked. “About dropping out?”
“No.”
“We should meet for coffee,” Demetrius said. “I’ve got something interesting to tell you.”
“I can’t. I’m in Bogville.”
“That far? Campaign event? Isn’t that Governor Grimoire territory?”
“I don’t know why, but I came here to see if I could figure out what was going on in the bog,” Amal said.
“Ah, that. That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Amal turned on her turn signal and passed a truck carrying seashells in its bed. She stepped on the gas, and when she made it past the truck the sea opened up on her left.
“I just questioned Lucan Grimoire.”
“Lucan? Why?” she asked.
“He was shot.”
“My God.”
“He’s all right. I’ll tell you more later. What did you find out in Bogville?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Just a couple of disgruntled witnesses. I made a big mistake coming here. It would have been more prudent to do a speech or canvass. I’m kicking myself for it, Demetrius. I really am.”
“You should’ve told me you were in Bogville. The man who shot Grimoire, he lived there. I’m looking for his son.”
Amal sighed. “Bog folk aren’t very friendly.”
“I doubt you would’ve seen him anyway,” Demetrius said. “Name’s Tony Dyer. Five six height, about a hundred and thirty pounds. According to Lucan he had a broken arm and a black eye. Lives above a tea parlor.”
The description sounded familiar, and she cycled back through her memories.
The boy in the coffee shop.
He’d matched the description. She remembered his sunglasses and his sad, troubled air.
Amal swerved to the side of the road, and her tires chirped as she came to a stop.
“Babe, you all right?” Demetrius asked.
“Describe him for me again,” she said.
- Writer
