The Language of Sand

intentionally avoided the specifics of how she came into that particular debt.

“Oh, right, the infamous fight at the Kettle.”

“It’s infamous?”

“Only to the people who’ve heard about it.”

“Wonderful.”

“So Merle sent you to…?” Larner expected her to fill in the blanks.

“Test the doors and windows. See if any of the units have been broken into.”

The sheriff cocked his brow. “Guard duty?”

“Merle can barely walk and it’s basically my fault. It’s just for a week, until he’s better.”

“A week, huh?”

“I know, I know. I’m turning into a nuisance, what with starting that fight and the changes I’ve made to the caretaker’s house.”

Her comment visibly caught the sheriff’s attention. Abigail presumed that whatever she did, whether buying a paintbrush or washing her laundry, somebody had already reported on it to everyone else. Wasn’t that how the grapevine worked? And wasn’t Larner the person who’d warned her about it?

“What sorts of changes are we talking about?” he inquired coyly.

Abigail’s defenses went up. She chose her answer prudently. “A little paint. That’s all.”

“Paint never did anybody any harm.”

“Let’s hope not,” Abigail said under her breath.

“You almost finished with your security detail?”

“I have some more houses to visit, then I’ll be off the streets,” she joked.

“Be careful. We haven’t caught the guys responsible for those break-ins. Watch yourself with that hammer, ’kay? Lucky for you it’s not considered a concealed weapon.”

“Okay. I mean, yes, sir.”

With that, the sheriff rode away in his patrol car.

Aside from the police cruiser, Abigail hadn’t seen anybody else drive by in the past two nights. There had been dozens of people at the bingo game. Where were they, she wondered.

At home, she surmised. With their families.

The children would be in bed. Their parents were probably watching television or washing the dinner dishes, getting ready to call it a night. Abigail envied them. She couldn’t see them, didn’t know who they were or where they lived, yet those nameless, faceless people had what she longed for. They would wake up the next morning and their lives would be the same.

The last house on Merle’s map was a white bungalow with flowers blooming out front. Yawning, Abigail circled the building. She glanced at the windows and halfheartedly shook the doors until a set of headlights brightened the road.

“Don’t let it be the sheriff again. I can only take so much humiliation per night.”

The approaching vehicle was a truck rather than a car. Abigail stopped where she stood. She’d left the hammer in her station wagon. The lights grew closer. Whoever was driving would be able to see her shortly.

It could be anybody. Including the thieves.

Abigail hid. Kneeling behind the bushes, she peeked between the leaves. The twang of country music was coming from the truck, along with a woman’s giddy laughter. Two silhouettes hovered in the truck’s cab. The driver pulled to the side of the road, preparing to park a few yards behind her Volvo.

“No, not there. Keep going. Keep going,” she whispered.

The truck’s engine shuddered to a halt, the lights dimmed, and the giggling ceased as the two shadows melded into one.

“Oh, jeez. I could be here all night.”

She considered her options, most of which were mortifying. A woman wandering from the bushes of a deserted house was going to seem odd, and even if she could get to her station wagon without the two lovers in the truck noticing, they would hear her start the car.

“Why do you care? Remember, you’re a badass. You’re infamous. You scoff in the face of adversity. You also talk to yourself too much.”

Abigail emerged from the brush, intent on strolling to her station wagon in a composed fashion. Except her legs moved faster and faster until she broke into a trot.

“Stop. I hear something,” the woman in the truck said.

Two bewildered faces stared at Abigail from behind the steamed windshield. Mid-stride, she locked glances with the female passenger, a woman with wavy hair and wide, plaintive eyes. Abigail recognized her as one of the “hens” sitting with Janine Wertz at the bingo game. Behind the wheel of the truck was Clint Wertz, his arm slung over the woman’s shoulder, her blouse unbuttoned. Abigail jumped into her car and peeled out. She couldn’t tell who was more embarrassed. Her or them.