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Finished in the bathroom, I hit the kitchen and ignored Cap standing in it with his hands on his cargo-clad hips (today, black, with a navy blue short-sleeved thermal) and went direct to the coffeepot where, fortunately, there was already coffee brewed.
Because I was confused, anxious, and annoyed—a volatile combination with anyone, definitely with me—I performed my version of getting up in his shit by making him wait even longer.
I opened the fridge, grabbed the creamer and made myself a mug before I turned to him and took a sip.
Only then did I repeat, “Where did you find that?”
“Again, who gives a fuck?” The card was still in his fingers, and he lifted it before he went on, “Tell me why you’ve got this.”
I didnotlike his bossy tone.
Therefore, unwisely, I shot back, “Tell me why it’s your business.”
He flicked the business card so it slid across my bar.
He then proceeded to rock my world when he said, “Clarice was a kid who hung at the same shelter I did when I was a runaway.”
Uh…
What?
Holyshit.
Nowthatcouldn’t be just a coincidence.
I stared.
“She’s now a viciously successful defense attorney,” he went on. “So again, what the fuck?”
“I—” I began.
“Raye…”—he learned forward and barked…actuallybarked…at me!—“talk!”
Oh no he did not.
“Do not speak to me like that,” I fired back.
“Then use your mouth and explain that shit to me.”
“Tell me where you got that card first,” I demanded.
“It was sticking out of the cushion of your armchair.”
Oh.
Well then.
Guess I wasn’t very thorough in tucking all of that away.
“Raye,” he said warningly.
“I don’t actuallyknowher,” I told him. “She was in my apartment last week when I got home one night.”
“In it, like, you didn’t let her in?”
“In it likeyouwere in it. Somehow, she broke in.”
“When?”
