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“Yes, you made that quite clear over the years. Not so much the words, but the actions.”
Or, more accurately,inactions.
“You must love me, too, though. To pay for this shit, to come here and give me the chocolate milk and ask about mybowelmovements.”
“It’s called Ensure. And I will bury you nice, or do you prefer cremation?”
“Just burn me to ash and be done. I’m almost there now.”
“And sprinkled where?”
“Who gives a shit?”
“I will see you next time.”
But her mother had fallen asleep. That often happened when your body could barely breathe. As she looked down at the wrecked woman, she had to fight back the urge to put a pillow over her face and be done with her and that part of her life.
You’re right, I do hate you. And you earned that. But it also wasn’t all your fault, either. Part of me feels sorry for you. But only part. But you have nothing and I now have a lot, so here we are.
Sometimes life didn’t just suck, it made no sense at all.
Because people often make no sense.
Later, as the plane shed altitude on its way to land, she looked at her Mickey Gibson phone—that, like her notebook, was actually labeled that.
Gibson had tried to call her three times.
You could have been so much more, Mickey Gibson. And you just threw it all away. You had every opportunity, and now look at you. And me? I had nothing. And now look at me. Right on the same playing field as you. Because this is a competition even if you don’t know it yet.
But all the phone call attempts were interesting. She might have found out Pottinger’s true identity now. Other things being equal, that had to be it. Fingerprints from Stormfield was the most likely angle. If she had passed that test, things were about to get interesting.
Mickey Gibson would have her full and undivided attention for the allotted twenty-five minutes, because she had a schedule to keep.
She looked out the rounded window of the Gulfstream as the tarmac flew at her. A few moments later the jolt of landing brought her back to terra firma in more ways than one.
She deplaned, and the waiting car service dropped her four blocks from the place she was using as a temporary residence. She walked the rest of the way.
Later that evening it took ten minutes to type out the message to Senator Wright and append a little attachment that would forever change the man’s life, and not for the better. Yet it would do wonders for her bank account. This was her version of ransomware, only she would never accept cryptocurrency in payment. It fluctuated too much in value from day to day, which was the last thing you wanted currency to do. A wire to bounce-around bank accounts in Zurich and Istanbul would suffice.
With the senator about to receive a gut punch via the “very” personal online account he had provided Angie so she could write dirty to him over the digital ether and hopefully sext him a time or two, she opened herMICKEY GIBSONnotebook, lined up her Post-it notes, stared at the video sectors on her screen, and tapped the speed dial.
Mickey Gibson, Round Three.
She was fully prepared and scripted, but actually hoping that Gibson had a few surprises for her.
Truthfully, after Mommy time, she needed the diversion.
CHAPTER13
G?IBSON WAS IN HER HOMEoffice. Tommy was playing in the corner, and Darby was sound asleep on her blanket in a miniature wooden rocking chair Gibson’s father had made for his granddaughter.
The phone buzzed. It was her police friend, Kate, from Jersey City.
“Only three sets of prints were in the system,” she said. “One matches a fellow named Paul Gerald. He works for the post office.”
“The mailman, then,” said Gibson.
“Right, that’s what I figured, too. The second set was a Mary Tatum, she’s also a postal worker.”
