I was tired and pissy by the time my shift was over at the Y that Saturday. A few first aid incidents and a near-drowning had me glad the day had ended. I cleaned up at my apartment, dressing in jeans shorts and a plain T-shirt. The face I saw in the mirror—crow’s feet in the corner of gray eyes, tanned skin, brown hair with a sprinkling of gray—looked a little worse for wear.
I wasn’t sure what to expect from my evening with Corey, but it beat sitting in living room, getting drunk while watching reruns.
A half an hour later, I pulled up to the front of his house. There were a lot of cars parked out front, all of them newer models in the over seventy-thousand-dollar range. I parked my beat-up truck behind a red Maserati.
I walked up the front door and rang the bell. It opened immediatel
