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“I do believe you.” He said it like he wanted to but didn’t. “Try to stay out of places where you might run into football fans.”
Griff gave him a look.
Abashed, he said, “Hard to do, I know, but try not to provoke another incident.”
“I didn’t provoke this one.”
“I believe that, too.” And this time he sounded sincere. He stood up to leave. Griff tried not to let his relief show. “Stay where you are,” Arnold said when Griff made to get up. “I’ll see myself out.” He turned to go, then came back around. “Have you heard anything from Stanley Rodarte?”
Griff was glad for the concealing effect the swelling and bruising had on his expression. “Actually, he showed up at the prison the day of my release.” He admitted it in case this was a trick question. Arnold might have been in contact with Wyatt Turner, who could have mentioned Rodarte’s unwelcome appearance.
“Did you talk to him there?”
“No.” Again, the truth.
“He’d mean trouble for you. The last person you’d want to see coming.”
“You can say that again.”
“I’d like to know if he comes around. In fact, I need to know.”
“Absolutely.”
“You’d be dumb to take him on alone, Griff.”
“I won’t.”
Thoughtfully Arnold threaded his clip-on necktie through his fingers. “His reputation being what it is, I’m a bit surprised he’s keeping his distance. Nothing from him since that day at the prison, huh?”
“Nope. Nothing.”
So much for not lying to his probation officer.
Griff’s physical strength and conditioning served him well, and he mended. During the week following the surprise visit from Jerry Arnold, the swelling around his eyes and mouth subsided and his face began to look familiar.
The bruises faded to an ugly greenish yellow, then the green began to go away, leaving him with only an overall jaundiced look. The gash above his eyebrow was reduced to a faint pink line. It matched the faint pink line across his cheekbone, a lasting gift Rodarte had delivered himself that night in the parking garage.
Rodarte had a shitload of grief to answer for. Despite what he’d told his probation officer, Griff couldn’t wait for the opportunity to pay the bastard back.
He hadn’t resumed his multi-mile runs yet, but he had swum laps the past two days. His muscles were sore, but in the good way that came from exercise, not from being pounded on by fists that had felt like meat tenderizers.
He wasn’t up to full speed, but he no longer moved like a ninety-year-old with arthritis in every joint. He was feeling more like himself. Which was good. Because Laura Speakman called one morning as he was stepping out of the shower.
“One o’clock?”
“That’s good for me.”
“I’ll see you then.”
He looked at himself in the full-length mirror on the back of his bathroom door. If she had turned her head away from him before, she might go into a full-fledged cower at the sight of him today. His appearance had improved, but he still looked like he’d taken a sound beating.
He gave himself another critical once-over in the mirror, front and back. One good thing, he thought, she won’t be seeing me naked.
CHAPTER
13
LAURA OPENED THE DOOR FOR HIM, THEN STOOD ASIDE AND motioned him into the house. No sports jacket this time, she noted. He was wearing a white oxford cloth Polo shirt tucked into his jeans, and brown cowboy boots, which he’d been wearing th
