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Gibson took a symbolic step back. “Of course.”
He eyed the computers. “I guess it was a big change. Going from the streets to this.”
“It was. But being a parent is an even bigger change in your life, maybe the biggest.”
He left Gibson there staring at the screens around which her work life now flowed.
What the hell have I just stepped in?
CHAPTER7
GIBSON PUT THE PHONE DOWNafter having talked to Zeb Brown. He confirmed everything that Sullivan had told her. There was no Arlene Robinson. There was no assignment from ProEye.
Brown hadn’t been at all sympathetic with Gibson. On the contrary, he’d clearly been pissed that she hadn’t confirmed the assignment with him and saved the company and her a lot of trouble and egg on their faces.
“Wedohave a reputation to uphold,” he had told her in a scolding tone. “So if there is a next time, just call me, okay? Then maybe we can avoid being part of a freaking police investigation. And maybe you should bag going out tonight to celebrate the Larkin matter and get your head on straight.” He’d clicked off before she could reply.
She slowly set the phone down.Okay, he thinks I’m either an idiot or I’m involved in a crime, and I’m not sure which is worse, because I cannot lose this job.
Later, she fed her kids, played with them, bathed them, and put them to bed. She still had on her mother’s pantsuit. The waist actually felt a bit looser, and she realized she hadn’t had anything to eat other than the almond oatmeal cookie.
She went down to the kitchen, and pan-cooked her special and amazing Kraft Mac & Cheese and ate it standing up with a glass of cheap merlot to kill the taste.
Gibson looked out the window and saw nothing but darkness in the chilly springtime evening.
Darkness out there, darkness in here.
Darkness between my ears.
And then her phone buzzed. Her business phone. She looked at the screen. It was a text.
Can you talk? AR
She almost dropped her wine and then looked quickly around to see if she was being watched somehow.
She texted back:Okay.And waited.
The phone buzzed. She answered. The same woman’s voice came on the line.
“Can I explain?” she said.
“What a great idea,” snapped Gibson. “Maybe your real name might be the best place to start.”
“They found the body, correct?”
“Ifound the body. Daniel Pottinger. Murdered. How’d you kill him?”
“I need you to go to your front door.”
“Why?” said Gibson in a tense voice. She automatically looked up, to where her kids were sleeping.
The woman said, “You’ll find a phone there in a box. I’ll call it in thirty seconds.” She clicked off.
Gibson rushed to the gun safe, unlocked it, slid out her Beretta, and slapped in a mag.
She hurried to the front door and looked out one of the side lights. She lived in a working-class, cookie-cutter neighborhood of 1,500-square-foot homes with carports or one-car garages, built mostly in the eighties. There were lights on in some of the houses, and cars were parked up and down the street. She saw no one out and about. A dog barked from somewhere, making her jump. She slowly opened the door and saw the small box on the porch. Gibson gently opened it just as the phone inside started to ring. She stepped back into her home and locked the door.
And then Mickey Gibson decided to lose her shit.
