Chapter 3
“Want to tell me what’s really going on with you?”
“Excuse me?” I asked, fastening my seatbelt, then sliding my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose.
George “Dandy” Dandridge, my friend from WFI’s data processing department, pulled his silver Buick Century out of the restaurant’s parking lot and onto the road leading back to the office. He gave me a sideways glance. “You hardly touched your enchiladas.”
“Wasn’t all that hungry, I guess.” At least not hungry for food, that is.
“And all through the meal you seemed, I don’t know, distracted somehow.”
“I’ve heard that before,” I muttered under my breath. At least he hadn’t said “befuddled” also, like Mallory had teased a few hours earlier.
“One minute you looked worried, the next pissed off, the next confused, and the next angr
