Answer: I wasn't. I was angry, hurt, vulnerable, and alone. And I hadn't had sex in a very long time.
Question: Would it happen again?
Answer: No.
Question: Why not?
Why not? I still loved Pete. I had since first laying eyes on him, barefoot and bare-chested on the steps of the law school library. I'd loved him as he lied about Judy, then Ellen. I'd loved him as I packed and left two years ago.
And I obviously still found him sexy as hell.
My sister, Harry, has a Texas expression. Flat ass stupid. Though I love Pete, and find him sexy, I am not flat ass stupid.
I wiped steam from the glass, remembering the old me looking back from that same mirror. My hair was blond when we first moved in, long and straight to my shoulders. It's short now, and I've abandoned the golden surfer look. But gray hairs are sneaking in, and I'll soon be checking out the Clairol browns. The lines have increased and deepened around my eyes, but my jawline is firm and my upper lids have stayed put.
Pete always said my butt was my best feature. That, too, has remained in place, though effort is now required. But, unlike many of my contemporaries, I own no spandex and have never hired a personal trainer. I possess no treadmill, step machine, or stationary bike. I do not enroll in aerobics or kickboxing classes, and have not run in an organized race in over five years. I go to the gym in T-shirts and FBI shorts, tied at the waist with a drawstring. I jog or swim, lift, then leave. When the weather is nice, I run outside.
I've also tried to tighten up on what I eat. Daily vitamins. Red meat no more than three times a week. Junk food no more than five.
I was positioning my panties when my cell phone rang. Racing to the bedroom, I upended my purse, retrieved the phone, and hit the button.
“Where have you disappeared to?”
Ryan's voice was completely unexpected. I hesitated, panties in one hand, phone in the other, unable to think of a thing to say.
“Hello?”
“I'm here.”
“Here where?”
“I'm in Charlotte.”
There was a pause. Ryan broke it.
“This whole thing is a crock of sh—”
“Have you talked to Tyrell?”
“Briefly.”
“Did you describe the coyote scene?”
“Vividly.”
“And he said?”
“Thank ya, sir.” Ryan mimicked the ME's drawl.
“This isn't Tyrell's idea.”
“There's something off center about the whole thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I'm not sure.”
“What's off center?”
“Tyrell was jumpy. I've only known him a week, but jumpy is not normal demeanor for him. Something is making him squirm. He knows you didn't tamper with remains, and he knows Earl Bliss ordered you up here last week.”
“So who's behind the complaint?”
“I don't know, but I sure as hell intend to find out.”
“It's not your problem, Ryan.”
“No.”
“Any developments in the investigation?” I switched the subject.
I heard a match flare, then a deep inhalation.
“Simington is starting to look like a good choice.”
“The guy with the heavily insured wife?”
“It's better than that. The new widower owns a company that does highway construction.”
“So?”
“Easy access to plastic X.”
