Another awkward silence. Lila’s favorite kind. She took another bite. She wasn’t especially hungry—she’d finished her lunch at Meritage—but it gave her something to do with her hands so she wouldn’t forget herself and fidget.
After a long moment, Garsea spoke up. “We understand if you want to call the police. But I’d respectfully ask that you don’t. It’ll make an already complicated situation even thornier. And I don’t know that you’d like the outcome.”
Lila laughed at her. Since when is “liking the outcome” relevant? “Jesus Christ, just stop dancing and out with it. What do you want with me? You have questions, I know you do. Just fucking ask already.”
Ox opened his mouth as if to answer, then closed it and looked at Garsea, who was looking out the kitchen window behind Lila. (Maybe at the fox? It had made itself scarce once Lila had put it down.) Garsea’s BF glowered and Mama Mac got up and cleared the cookie plate and napkins.
These people cannot possibly conduct interviews like this for a living. Am I going to have to get this going? Unbelievable.
“You want to talk about Sally?” she prompted. “Because we can talk about Sally. How’s she doing? Is she still insisting her folks are alive?”
“Yes,” Garsea replied. “That’s part of the reason I wanted to talk to you.”
“Is that why you set off my sprinkler and air horns and strobe flashes while I wasn’t home? So you could talk to me?” She didn’t use air quotes for “talk,” but assumed her intent came across.
Ox laughed, then shrugged apologetically when Garsea scowled at him.
“Touché,” she muttered. “On my way over here, I got a call from my partner. It seems a man identifying himself as Sally’s father called IPA.”
“Awkward,” Lila observed. “Did you tell him he was dead?”
“And,” Garsea continued, making a clear attempt to hold her temper, which was hilarious, “Sally must have spoken with him somehow, because…”
“Let me guess: you lost her again.” When no one said anything, Lila shook her head. “You guys suck at your jobs. You know that? Nobody gets to give this guy—” She jerked her thumb at a surprised Ox. “—any more grief about his job. He’s got the excuse of being new. You guys’ excuse is that you’re all terrible. Let me guess: If I see Sally, I should call IPA or drop back in here—”
“You don’t have to find Sally to come visit,” Mama Mac put in.
“Absolutely!” Ox added with alarming enthusiasm.
“—or, I dunno, bring her to IPA myself? Maybe that’s the best way to go about it. I’ll just do it myself, like the saying says.” She hoped Google Maps had an inkling of where IPA was. “Way more efficient, doncha think?”
“Ouch,” Ox said mildly.
Lila threw up her hands. “Or I could just adopt her. Sure, why not? There’d be loads of paperwork, but in the end, it’d probably be a time-saver.”
Nothing. Except for the curious fact that, suddenly, none of them could meet her gaze.
They were stuck, Lila realized. They didn’t know what she knew, that was problem number one. They couldn’t call the cops—that was problem number two. She hadn’t done anything wrong; that was problem number three. But a straight-up confrontation was dangerous. Not to mention they knew she had proof of Garsea’s illegal shenanigans.
So now a cookie meeting to try and suss out what to do next, but they were still locked in their holding pattern. She figured they were going to observe and circle closer and closer until they thought it was safe, and then…
Pounce.
She rose. “Chickenshits.”
“Hey!” From Ox. “If you’re gonna call us names, we prefer ‘ineffective morons.’”
“He is not speaking for the rest of us,” Annette said at once.
“Thanks for the cookies and milk, Macropi.”
Garsea got up, too, and so did Ox. Garsea’s boyfriend didn’t move.
“Thank you for the profiteroles,” Garsea said with finishing school politeness.
“You’re welcome. Thank you for not beating me to death over a random fox. Next time, call first.”
Chapter 15
Baking soda. Birdseed. Dish soap. Gummy worms. Bird feeder. Half a dozen lip balms. Baking soda? No, she’d already put that in her basket.
So she was finished. List complete, again—just like when she’d gone to the drugstore before the decoy lunch. She hadn’t bought anything, just left. And why not? It’s not like she was enduring a birdseed crisis. Or a chapped lip crisis. She had chapped lips, but it wasn’t a crisis. And did she even need baking soda? Because as a weirdo repellant, it had failed. So maybe she wouldn’t buy anything this time, either. She didn’t have to. No one could force her to buy drugstore items and associated sundries, dammit!
Anyway.
List, complete. Basket, full.
Time to go up to the cashier.
Time to pay for her things and go home. Because she had finished shopping. Her list had nothing but cross-outs. All done. No further need to remain.
So she dropped the ovulation kit (Baby4U!) in her basket and turned and marched up to the clerk and paid for all of it and headed for the parking lot and what was happening to her?
Just…just go home and relax and try to get more than four hours of sleep. Have you considered the idea that a lot of this might be simple fatigue? Or dark sorcery?
“It’s not dark sorcery,” she announced, ignoring the puzzled expressions of her fellow Walgreens shoppers. “I’m pretty sure.”
* * *
The clock struck 1:00 a.m. (not literally; Lila hadn’t unpacked it yet) just as there was a tentative knock on her front door.
Let the wild rumpus start, she thought, and went to the door. As if the person on the other side could hear her approach (unlikely; it was an old house with a thick front door), there was more knocking, followed by a pleasant treble
