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I’m not sure how it happened, but her case has brought me back in time. I hear Meggie’s voice. “I think it’s not a matter of fixing, but of creating a rewrite you can live with…”
Maybe I don’t have to catch Ashley’s killer. I just need to reset, overwrite, get on the right timeline, whatever.
I don’t know how it works, just that if I do this right, I get my family back.
Which maybe means solving Gretta’s case, if I want to reboot my life.
“We gotta go,” I say to Burke. According to my sketchy memory, Gretta died of a head injury. Not the MO of the Jackson killers, but maybe Booker knew something.
“Go where?” Burke climbs out of the ring, and Shelby smiles at him and we so don’t have time for this.
But what, exactly, am I going to say? I know there’s a murder going down, I feel it in my bones? “I need some coffee.”
Burke looks at me. “Really?”
It’s now I remember that our last big case was the coffee shop bombings, so maybe he’s a little skittish. I circle back around with, “I found this great breakfast place, but we have to get there before the specials sell out.”
He’s still looking at me like I’ve lost my mind, so I climb out of the ring and head for the locker room.
But not before I turn to Eve for another look. Wow, I’d forgotten how she could blow me away. Somehow, I manage a cool, “You look great, Eve. It’s nice to see you.”
She offers a smile, as if surprised, and I wonder what the idiot twenty-eight year old me has been up to in my absence.
‘C’mon Burke!” He’s still flirting with Shelby. She’s not worth your time, I want to say, but maybe in this world she is, so I just grab him by the arm and yank him toward the locker room.
We have lives to save.
I’m yelling at him from the shower to hurry up and Burke’s annoyed and not just a little confused when he slides into my Camaro five minutes later.
I’m in a suit again. Clearly, I need to write a note to my younger self to loosen up.
Wow, sweet ride, how I’ve missed you. Right now, my Porsche is sitting in my father’s barn waiting for me to check the timing belt. She’s running with a hiccup, so I’m guessing the belt has jumped a tooth.
But the Camaro will do. I punch it as we head down Hennepin Avenue to Lulu’s.
1997. Not so long ago, but subtle changes have taken place. In my time, the football stadium is gone, replaced by the shiny metallic US Bank stadium of the Vikings. Now, the puffy white covered dome stands in the middle of the city.
I take highway 55, get off at Lake Street and curse the lights that could be costing Gretta her life.
Although, she might already be dead.
We pull up to Lulu’s, a 1950’s diner on the corner of 41st and Lake. A tattoo parlor sits dark across the street, and next door, barks from the animal clinic suggest the dogs have heard something.
Lulu’s sits alone in a weedy parking lot, a gleaming metallic building that conjures up Richie and the gang hanging out at Arnold’s diner. I get an image of the Fonz as I park the Camaro.
She’s around here, somewhere, and if my memory is correct…
“Did you hear something?” I say over the top of the car.
Burke has gotten out, running a hand over his suit. He raises an eyebrow. “Like? My ears are still ringing.”
Oh. I might have played Seger a little too loud, but frankly, nothing pumps the blood more than tracking down a killer to Old Time Rock and Roll.
Or, the fact that I’m settling into a life—my life—like a pair of Levis.
“I thought I heard…” I walk over toward the dumpsters, set at the edge of the lot in front of a wooded area of trash and debris.
She’s here. I remember now, and—
