Beth is examining my finger, squeezing it gently, forcing blood to gush out. I’m pretty sure everything’s still attached. I could still need stitches, though, and I don’t want those either. The metallic taste of blood in my mouth is starting to make me feel sick, and my finger hurts.
“It’s not that bad,” Beth says.
I don’t believe her. “It seems pretty bad,” I say, looking away from the scene of the crime.
“Don’t be such a wimp,” she says with a chuckle.
I’ve apparently tensed up. “Relax,” Beth says, stroking my arm with her hand. I wonder if she should put on gloves. I guess since she has kids, my blood doesn’t alarm her. Besides, if she thought anything was seriously wrong with me, she probably wouldn’t have had sex with me, protected or otherwise.
I try to relax, taking a deep breath with my eyes closed. When I open them, they land on her first-aid kit. I poke around in it for a minute. It gives me something to do while Beth blots away the blood, trying to stop the stream, then wraps my finger tightly, a little too tightly, and kisses it, just like I wanted.
“Why do you have glycerin drops?” I ask as she finishes up.
“I don’t. What are glycerin drops anyway?”
“I can assure you, you do have glycerin drops. They’re what they use in movies to make it look like you’re crying.”
“Let me see,” she says. I put them in her hand and she examines the bottle, holding it far away to read it because she doesn’t like to wear her reading glasses. They make her look and feel old, she says, no matter how much I assure her nothing could make her look old.
She makes a noise, then hands them back to me.
“So where’d you get ’em?” I ask.
“I thought they were just regular eyedrops. I have dry eyes, and when I visited Maggie last week she gave them to me.”
“So your sister had them?” I ask.
“Yeah. What’s the big deal?” she asks somewhat defensively. I assume she’s figuring out exactly what the big deal is, but maybe I’m wrong.
“It’s weird to have these just lying around in your medicine cabinet. People don’t typically stock these in their house, Beth. Did you use them?”
“No. What would have happened if I did?” Beth asks, growing upset.
I forget about my finger and how much it hurts. Beth walks away and I follow her and put my arms around her. “Nothing. They’re harmless, but every time you blinked, you would have looked and felt like you were crying.”
Beth calms. I don’t accuse Margaret of anything. That wouldn’t help my cause, and I’d like to stay close to Beth, just in case I need her assistance in the future, or someone to talk to . . . or fuck.
Tracy texts me first thing the next morning. She wants to meet me for dinner at some fancy steakhouse downtown. I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m just glad the evening won’t involve any cooking; I’ve had more than my fill of that for pretty much the rest of my life.
I can’t help but wonder what’s on Tracy’s mind. More talk about marriage? She’s beautiful, always has been since I first set eyes on her in high school. Long brown hair, bronzed skin, big boobs, tiny waist, the perfect smile. She was captain of the volleyball team and even got reasonably good grades. She was a catch by any standard. It’s been a long time, though. Being high school sweethearts sounds great and all until you’re in college and entering the workforce and want to see what other fish are in the pond but already have one on your hook you can’t shake off.
After all this time, it should be simple. We should be married and living together. Should have kids and one of those stupid fancy houses. We should be like one of those perfect families on TV and it’s driving us both crazy that we aren’t, and yet, we don’t do anything about it. I don’t do anything about it. Tracy would never propose to me. Her mentioning marriage is meant to force my hand, and for some reason, it hasn’t.
I didn’t sleep last night. Sure, my finger was bothering me, but the real culprit was those glycerin drops. Why did Margaret Moore have glycerin drops? And why’d she give them to Beth?
I fill my travel mug to the brim with coffee and hit the road to the station. It’s a nice drive. I skip the expressway in favor of the longer, more-scenic route. Sometimes I do this when I have a lot on my mind and need to sort through things. I’ve solved more than a few cases along this road.
That big maple tree. Right around there, I figured out a decades-old homicide my dad had worked on. Over by those rosebushes, that’s where I thought through a not-so-accidental car crash. Ah, and my favorite—up by the school. That’s where I caught a kidnapper. Locked that asshole up for life. I’m not necessarily expecting a moment like that this morning, but it can’t hurt.
Kate runs to me the moment I walk in. It’s like she was watching the door, just waiting for my arrival.
“Lana’s friend is here,” she says.
“So Lana did have friends,” I reply before downing the rest of my coffee and heading to the breakroom to refill my mug. I already can tell it’s going to be a long day.
“This guy,” she says, looking down at
