TorrieGetting home is easy: a phone call, a slip into old crumpled clothes, a fling of my things into my purse.
It’s being home that’s hard. As soon as I walk in the door, the last person I want to see strides down the steps to greet me.
“Another mystery overnight,” Carlos says, sitting down on the bottom step.
Jane trots up to engulf my hand in licks. I pat her, ignore him.
“Are you planning on telling me where you keep going?” he asks.
I slip out of one shoe, then the other.
I say, “No.”
He strides in front of me, gets up in my face.
“You’ve got to be careful, you know. We’ve been intercepting some of the Rebel Saints’ merchandise and they’re pissed. They’re a ticking time bomb.”
I turn away.
Yup, that’s what those women are to Carlos. That’s all they are, “merchandise.”
“Than
