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“You don’t know that,” I insisted. “You don’t know that the information some of your less-than-reputable clients are giving you is legit. And you don’t know what reasons these people may have had to do whatever it was they did to cross your path.”
“Reasons?” he asked, looking mildly amused, which just pissed me off.
“Yes, reasons. Life isn’t black-and-white. Sometimes decent people do the wrong thing for the right reason.”
“Like stealing a loaf of bread to feed starving orphans?”
“Yes, thank you for taking me seriously.” I narrowed my eyes so dramatically I actually felt the strain on my ocular muscles. “I’m just saying that you never know what you’re capable of until you’re in dire straits.”
“I think I’m pretty familiar with what desperate people will do.” He frowned at me, but his tone was still gentle, which was confusing.
I was questioning him, openly, so why was he being so damn nice about it? How was I supposed to predict his actions if he didn’t respond the way I expected him to?
He reached across the seat to jostle my shoulder, drawing his hand away when he saw how I tensed up. “Is there a reason that you’re taking this so personally?”
I stared out the window. There were plenty of reasons I could give him. I was taking it personally because there was someone out there looking for me. And I would want someone to take it personally if I was gagged and tagged like a freshly caught deer. Because I knew what it was like to wake up afraid. I knew what it was like to want to ask friends, family, the police—anybody—for help but being too scared.
But that was a heck of a hand to tip toward someone I barely knew.
“I just don’t like to see people hurt, that’s all,” I offered weakly.
He shifted in his seat and seemed to be choosing his words carefully as we sped toward a town called Smithville. “Well, that’s an admirable trait . . .”
I sensed an impending but.
“But get the hell over it,” he told me.
I crossed my arms over my chest with a harrumph.
Nice.
“Yes, thank you, my moral quandary is completely resolved,” I retorted in a saccharine-sweet voice that had him laughing.
“Well, I know what will make you feel better,” he said. When I arched my eyebrows, he waved “our” pay envelope. “Fresh underwear.”
“Jerry’s captors gave you fresh underwear that fits in an envelope?”
6
Feminine-Hygiene Products: The Ultimate in Werewolf Repellent
To celebrate our big win, Caleb took me to the exotic destination of Wall-Mart.
Please note that was Wall-Mart, with two Ls.
Given the faded sign lettering still evident on the storefront, I assumed the building had been an actual licensed Wal-Mart at some point, back before they changed their official name to Walmart. When the store closed, it appeared, some enterprising souls had just added an extra L to the sign and opened up their own discount megagrocery. The color scheme, façade, and layout were the same, but all of the employees seemed careful to emphasize the extra L when they said, “Welcome to Wallllllll-Mart.” I assumed this was done on the advice of legal counsel.
Caleb seemed nearly giddy about this shopping spree, cart-surfing toward the ladies’ clothing section. The selection wasn’t exactly diverse, but I was able to find several long-sleeved T-shirts, thermals, and hoodies that I could use. I didn’t want to swerve into mom-jeans territory, so I picked some yoga pants. I tossed some plain white cotton undies into the cart without comment from my werewolf shopping partner, for which I was grateful.
I hoped that the identity Red-burn created would involve living in an area with more retail opportunities. I was sincerely looking forward to wearing clothes that were not purchased in a store where you could also buy motor oil and bagged salad. As shallow as it was, I missed open-toed shoes. I missed designer labels. Heck, I missed clothes I could wear just because they were cute, not because they would protect me from frigid winds. I wanted to wear makeup again and not worry that I was attracting too much attention.
As we passed the men’s section, I saw a triple-extra-large black T-shirt featuring a Field & Stream–style illustration of a wolf howling at the moon. I briefly considered buying it to sleep in, but I figured Caleb might find it suspiciously coincidental.
“You don’t seem to be getting a lot,” he noted, as we wandered toward the health and beauty section. He nodded toward the cartload of blues, grays, and blacks.
“I don’t like someone else paying my way,” I told him.
“Well, you helped me snag Jerry, so part of the fee is yours, OK?”
