46
“Did you just grab Terry Steinway's ass?” Mike asked, as he led me to his Jeep.
“Yes, and my hand may never be the same. Ugh.”
Mike drove me to the Frey home to return Angela’s funeral attire. She’d also washed my remaining clothes from the previous day (those not in an evidence bag), and offered to drop me off at the Sheriff’s Department on her way to work.
“Are you sure?” Mike asked. “Because I can wait.”
Angela took his arm and walked him to the front door. I thought I heard her say, “Don’t worry; if anything happens you know she was last seen here.”
Neither of us had eaten yet, so Angela whipped up a couple of turkey sandwiches for lunch, sliced diagonally and complete with pickle spears and potato chips, root beer on the side. She wasn’t very chatty, but I chalked her pensive
