A gay story: Quicksand Pt. 03 Part 3
At the last minute, I decided to attend the graveside funeral of Lucas to lend support to my solitary neighbor. I was glad I did when I saw how few people attended. Two women in black (presumably the sisters), two thuggish-looking men, a preacher, and Evan. Detective Hardesty and a uniformed officer stood off to the side. By the hearse were four pallbearers from the funeral home. The preacher was already reciting a passage, so I exchanged a nod with Evan as I stood on the opposite side of the grave.
The service was mercifully brief and ended with some canned dirges playing from portable speakers. Evan approached the sisters. They sneered as he shook their hands and offered a few words of condolences. After a brief but cutting silence, the women turned and made their way to a bright red rent-a-car.
One thug approached Evan, the other came my way. Extending his hand, he said to me, “I don’t think we’ve met.”
I did my best impression of steely resolve and ignored his hand. “We still haven’t.”
He snorted as we locked eyes. “Wrong answer.” He cast a disdainful glare at the watchful cops and left.
I looked over to Evan. He was wincing at the force of the other brute’s handshake as the man bent close and spoke in hushed tones. The cops moved closer to afford protection and exchanged cold stares with the man before he moved off. The two men then walked to a black SUV with impenetrably dark windows, occasionally glaring over their shoulders at Evan, the cops, and me.
Evan was ashen as I walked up to him. Detective Hardesty arrived at the same time.
“What just happened?” I asked.
Evan’s voice trembled slightly, “I think you’d call it a graveside shakedown.”
“What did he say?” Hardesty asked. “Exact words.”
“He said, quote: Your fag husband owed us a hundred-eighty grand. Make it cash, no check.”
Hardesty wasn’t convinced. “Is that all?”
Evan’s voice wavered. “He said he doesn’t like guns and prefers a knife. It makes things more personal that way.”
That seemed to satisfy Hardesty. “Do you have someplace you can go for a while? Maybe a friend or family in another city? As in a city far away?”
That unsettled Evan even more. “No, not really. You think it’s that bad?”
“They’ve already killed one man,” the detective said. “How about your security system?”
“The best that money can buy. I have some valuable paintings and things.” Evan began to panic. “Oh my god, should I get a gun?”
“You?” The detective snorted derisively. “No.” Hardesty had the bedside manner of a zombie. “Just make sure everything’s locked tight. It’s a gated community so that’s something. The best I can do is keep a patrol car close.”
Then the detective turned to me. “Nice job, by the way.”
I was taken aback by his tone. “Well, what was I supposed to do?”
“Not come in the first place.”
“You’re not offering much in the way of assurance.”
“Don’t worry, we’re doing our job.” The detective turned back to Evan. “We’ll follow you home. Then I recommend you stay there until you can go far away.”
Evan and I exchanged texts over the next few days but, other than that, he heeded the Detective’s advice. I did a grocery run for the two of us that included a stop at the liquor store. Times like this call for a proper dose of alcohol.
As for me, I worked out in the clubhouse gym rather than running the cart paths at first light. I was taking no risks. The thugs could be lurking anywhere. I went into the office for client meetings. Other than that, I worked from home. The one thing I did was stay away from Evan’s door. The guarded gate meant we couldn’t be watched from a car, but it wasn’t difficult to wander onto a golf course. A chain link fence offers scant protection.
It was the third night after the funeral that the stillness was shattered by a blaring siren and a blast of floodlights. I bolted from my bed to the window in time to see a figure fight his way through the hedge lining Evan’s backyard and sprint across the 13th fairway.
By the time I got dressed and made it to my neighbor’s front door, a cop car was already there. Another raced up seconds later. I entered Evan’s condo close on the heels of the second cop. Once inside, I leaned against a kitchen counter, observing patiently while Evan and the first officer talked at the table. After a minute, the second cop went outside to check the yard. Eventually, the cop talking with Evan asked me if I had seen anything.
“Just a figure, I’m guessing maybe six feet tall, crashing through the bushes and running off. He had on a dark hoodie so I can’t add much else.”
The second cop returned. “Bagged and tagged a pry bar. Standard tool for burglars. No scratches on the window so he didn’t get that far before the alarm went off.”
I stayed with Evan after the cops left. He was appropriately shaken considering a potential murderer had tried to break into his house. I had seen enough TV to devise a plan, but Evan wasn’t so sure. “Not even tell the cops?”
I admit I might have been overly paranoid. “Trust no one. Just tell them you’re leaving and you’ll be checking your email if they need to contact you.”
“What about Lucy Fur?”
“Make a big deal of leaving her with me. Use a transport cage and bring her to my front door.”
“Okay. I can’t believe you’re doing this for me. I’ll never be able to repay your kindness.”
We went over every step of the plan again and again. I didn’t even allow him to take notes. Then he gave me one of his long, tight hugs, really more of an embrace. I almost had to pry him off me. First light was wedging open the edge of night as I made my way home.
Evan bought a same-day ticket to New York. It cost a fortune but he could afford it. He dropped off Lucy and a bag of supplies with me. Then he drove to the airport and left his car where it could be easily seen. He checked a bag at the ticket counter.
I had shown him how to remove his phone battery and he did so once he had made it to the gate. He boarded the plane, then made an excuse at the last minute to disembark with his carry-on bag. That way he was on the manifest but would not be included in the flight attendant’s head count. Then he went to the gate of another airline and waited facing outward with his head buried in a newspaper. A person walking through the concourse could not possibly recognize him. At precisely 4:30, at the height of the airport rush hour, he left the terminal through the arrival doors of a third airline where I was waiting at curbside. He got in the back seat and promptly lay on the floor. Only after my garage door had closed did he lift his head.
That night we toasted as if we’d pulled off a prison break. “It was a perfect plan,” Evan exclaimed raising his chardonnay.
Our glasses clinked. “And you were like Jason Bourne the way you nonchalantly disappeared in the back seat.”
“Foolproof. Right down to an old suitcase filled with Lucas’s clothes that will be unclaimed at JFK.”
“One less trip to Goodwill.”
“Not even Jason Bourne would have come up with that. You thought of everything.”
“I hope so. I’ve never harbored a fugitive from the mob before.”
“My hero.” Evan threw his arms around my neck in an exuberant hug. As usual, he lingered and drifted into an embrace. His mouth was close. I felt his breath on my ear as he whispered, “I can’t believe you.”
He pulled a scant distance away, arms still encircling my neck. Those green eyes mooned into mine, our lips were a quick kiss apart. He continued, “No one has ever been so kind.”
The moment hung there with its gravity and temptation. Surrender would be so simple. I felt my face grow hot and hoped it would be mistaken for embarrassment. “Enough, Fair Damsel. Let’s take this to the living room.”
Evan laughed an apology. “Alright, alright. But let’s not kid ourselves.” He brandished the bottle of chardonnay. “We’re gonna need this with us.”
I settled into my chair with Lucy ensconced in my lap. He sat close by on the couch. The blushing rays of sunset peaked around the drapes. “God, I wish we could sit on the patio,” he lamented. “It’s such a beautiful evening.”
“Me, too. But you have got to keep to the rules. Drapes closed. No leaving the house. Don’t even peek out the window if someone rings the door.”
Evan grabbed the remote and scrolled through my music library. He seemed suddenly wistful and selected the Cowboy Junkies. Beautiful but somber stuff. “Where did things go wrong?”
I was surprised at the suggestion. “It didn’t. We pulled it off without a hitch.”
“I mean with you. Your marriage. You’re the last guy that should be alone.”
“I really don’t…”
“No. Alan. You know everything about me but my hat size. You are fucking gorgeous. You’re kind, you’re charming and you’re alone. It makes no sense that you’re cooped up this way. What the fuck, Alan?”
“It’s a long story. I don’t want to get into it.”
“We’ve got nothing but time and,” he hoisted the bottle, “there’s plenty more of this.”
I don’t know why, maybe it was the music. The Junkies started to sing I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry. Maybe that was why. I told him the story. The whole story except for one part. The part where it had been a man I cheated with. I left that out. And the other part. The part that I couldn’t even speak to myself.
Still, I wound up crying. Bawling, really. Maybe it was the fucking music.
“Blood was gushing from her hand. I wanted to help her. She wouldn’t let me. At first, she wouldn’t even help herself. Blood was just pouring from the gash in her hand and she just kept yelling ‘Get out’ and ‘This is not your home anymore.'”
Evan perched on the arm of the chair and just held me as I wept. The album was over and the silence was pitiful with my sobs.
______________
The next morning, I left before Evan was up. Frankly, I was avoiding him. My two-year sequestration had come to an abrupt end when I decided to harbor a veritable stranger from thugs. My inviolable personal space had been breached and the result was me being drunk and weeping in a man’s arms on the very first day.
In the clubhouse gym, I ran the treadmill as if I was being chased by howling banshees. I pounded the heavy bag until my knuckles were bruised and then ran some more. When it was over, I reeked of rancid sweat and purged toxins but the anger and resentment remained. I showered and donned my work attire then escaped to the office.
It was after three o’clock when I headed home. I had decided I was not going to be a piteous confessant in my own home. We could rent Evan a hotel room in my name. The thugs wouldn’t find him there. I mean, how sophisticated could they be? Apparently, they ran their operation from a titty bar. We weren’t dealing with the creme de la creme of crime. My impulsive savior syndrome was going to end as abruptly as it started.
I was about to turn into my driveway when I saw him. One of the thugs leaning on a massive oak tree separating the 7th Tee from the street. He was smoking as he surveilled Evan’s home. I pulled into my driveway and watched him in the rearview mirror. I could feel him glowering from hooded eyes. He started toward me.
I dialed 911 as I exited the car and put my cell on speaker phone so he could hear.
“This is 911. What is your emergency?”
The thug was halfway across the street approaching undeterred.
“A person of interest in the murder of Lucas Gunnerson is prowling on private property and threatening me.”
He was on my driveway before he stopped.
“A person of interest?”
“Yes. A suspect in the murder of Lucas Gunnerson. He is six feet from me and threatening me.”
“Give me your location, please.”
As I recited my address the thug approached two steps closer and stopped. His jaw was clenched. I could practically hear his teeth grinding. Speaking to the 911 operator I said. “Please hurry.”
“The police are on their way.”
The thug leaned nearer. He was shorter than me but burly. His face bore the evidence of brawling and he held his hands high, clenching and unclenching his fists. I tried to show bravado, but my thousand-dollar suit suggested a safe and coddled life.
“Where is he?” the thug growled.
My fists were balled up, too, and I realized I was ready for whatever happened next. Testosterone swelled every sinew of my body. I was practically begging to ruin my suit.
“He got on a plane and flew away. Now why don’t you just fucking fly away, too?
”
“You keep saying the wrong things. It’s gonna catch up to you quick.”
He walked backward while trading glares with me until he got to the end of my driveway. Then he turned and walked directly in front of the 7th Tee as golfers shouted in disbelief.
I texted Evan: “Thug outside. Cops on the way. Get in guest room. Don’t even peek.” Then I called Detective Hardesty and related the events to him. A cop car screeched to a halt in front of me. Hardesty had me pass the phone to the cop.
Afterwards, the cop asked me to show him where the thug had been standing. The ground was littered with cigarette butts. He carefully gathered them in an evidence bag and noted the time and place on it.
“Are you going to run DNA on those?” I asked with the savvy of hundreds of police procedurals on TV.
“No, Sir. Not immediately. But we’ll have them if we need to build a case.”
As soon as I entered my condo I was assaulted again, this time by the aroma of simmering marinara sauce. I hollered up the stairs, “It’s all clear, Evan. You can come down now.”
I was sampling the sauce when Evan entered the kitchen. His face was ashen and etched with worry. “What happened, Alan. Are you alright?”
“Did you make this from scratch?”
“Yeah. You’ve got a very well-stocked pantry for a bachelor.”
“Old habits. You’re quite the cook, my friend.”
“Thank you. Now what happened?”
“And there’s chicken thawing? What have you got planned for us?”
“Chicken Parm. Now goddammit, Alan, tell me what happened?”
“Just one of those thugs from the funeral was watching your place. He left when I called 911.”
“Oh my God! Did he threaten you?”
“Fuck that guy! Facing off with me in my own driveway!” I could feel the adrenaline still coursing through my veins. “Fuck that guy!”
“I’m putting you in danger. ” Concern was inscribed upon his face. “Maybe I should move to a hotel or leave town for real.”
“No!” I didn’t mean to bark, but I was jazzed with adrenaline. “Nobody’s gonna touch my little buddy. I’m sorry. That was pretty condescending calling you little.”
“No, it was lovely.”
“But if they try to come through my door, they will find out that I’m armed, too. I will blow those motherfuckers away before I let them get to you.”
Evan wrapped me in another of his sensual hugs. “Thank you, Alan. I’ll never be able to repay you.”
I savored the closeness of his body before gently peeling myself away. All thoughts of banishing him to hostile shores were forgotten. We were going to get through this together. “Now I’m going to grab a beer and change out of this monkey suit.”
I grabbed two beers, handing one to Evan, and made my way to the stairs.
“You really cut a dashing figure in that suit,” Evan called after me. “You’re a real hunk, Alan.”
“Thanks, Little Buddy. You’re an eyeful, too.”
Let me tell you something about Evan. The sumbitch can cook. Jenny and I loved to get into the kitchen and try to recreate the stuff we saw on TV. Fresh ingredients, meticulous prep, we approached the art of cuisine as chemistry. From simple presentation to complex sauces. Precise. Measured. And we succeeded. Our friends were impressed by our sumptuous feasts. They praised our efforts and, in turn, hosted us to regal meals. Jenny, the competitive half of our couple, would privately proclaim that we won.
But cooking is more than chemistry. Evan had the intuitive touch that effortlessly melded the flavors beyond precision into the sublime. In the case of his Chicken Parmesan, it was the subtle infusion of lime. I’m guessing now because he wouldn’t tell. It would sully the mystique, he said. I had come to realize Evan is a quintessential tease.
“Well, whatever it is, it’s magical. Seriously, this is so good.”
“Thank you. It’s the least I can do.”
We froze ziplocks of the sauce, stored the leftovers, and loaded the dishwasher with the practiced ease of an old couple. Our tasks were completed in minutes.
“I feel like breaking out my stash,” I enthused, “getting baked and watching a movie.”
“That sounds great. Why don’t you pick out a good one for us. Just, please god, nothing with non-stop ass-kicking and car chases. That’s literally all Lucas would let us watch.”
“How about something geared to adults who are latently adolescent and occasionally indulge in the ganja?”
“That’s my roll, Baby.”
“I’ve got something I like to watch. It’s by Tulsa’s own Tim Blake Nelson. It’s smart and funny, and it has ancient philosophers and home-grown Okie pot growers.”
“I’m tingling already.”
We smoked a bowl and settled in to watch Leaves of Grass. Lucy curled up in my lap as soon as I settled in my chair. Evan sprawled on the couch.
When it was over Evan was agog. “How have I never heard of this movie?”
I loaded up another bowl. “Just the right amount of violence to keep it real.”
“And a crossbow? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
I handed him the pipe and lighter. “My favorite part was a beautiful woman reciting Walt Whitman while gutting a catfish. True Okiehoma.”
We sat quietly and passed the pipe. Lucy was roused by the silence. I scratched her neck and she commenced her sonorous purring.
Evan murmured, “It feels so normal, this evening. Almost like tomorrow will be good and the next day even better.”
I felt pleased to hear him say that. “You’re healing. You’ve survived a crucible of trauma and now your shattered innards are knitting back together like broken bones.”
“Both of us. Your shattered self has started to knit back together, too.”
Lucy’s purring sent tiny waves resounding through the corpus of my body and soul. Maybe this is what knitting a shattered heart feels like, I thought.
“When all this is over, I’m keeping this cat.”
Evan chuckled softly. “Do I at least get visitation rights?”
“That’s up to the Judge.”
I shut off the TV and the room was softly lit by a sole lamp. Confession, I thought, is good for the soul.
“Evan, something’s been bothering me since the other night.”
“It’s okay for men to cry. I’m just glad you got it off your chest.”
“Well, I am embarrassed about that but that’s not what bothers me. I left something out. Something very salient to the truth.”
“The part about how you cheated on Jenny with a man?”
I was gobsmacked. Evan had discerned the silent part. He had always addressed me as a straight man and, despite what had happened with Matt, that is how I saw myself.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” he asked.
“How did you know?”
“Jenny would have been more forgiving if it had been an infidelity with another woman. Yeah, she would have been pissed but it was obvious you guys had something special. Something worth saving. And she would have tried. If it had been with another woman, that is.”
I thought I had succeeded in burying that fact from sight to the world. My friends knew, of course. Jenny made damn sure of that. She had broadcast to all of them that I was a closet case. A lying, duplicitous closet case and that our marriage was over. Jenny was wrong about my fundamental attraction to men. It was a one-time indiscretion. A fling. But for Matt’s obsession, it would never have been discovered by Jenny and eventually forgotten by me. It had been a dangerous liaison with an unstable man.
“Yeah. You’re exactly right.”
“I think I could use a glass of wine.”
The evening had turned somber quickly. I stared at the empty picture frame and thought about how easily I had betrayed my marriage and all that I lost. Forgiveness seemed impossible. My soul shall be lifted nevermore.
Evan returned and handed me a very full glass of chilled white wine. “Veritas,” he said.
I chuckled. “You pour a mean glass of truth.”
He quipped. “If only the glasses were bigger.”
We sipped and considered the quiet. My thoughts were frozen, though my eyes kept returning to the picture frame as rattling echoes of self-loathing clattered in the dankness of my psyche.
Evan tried to appease my silence. “You’re not the first straight guy to be seduced, you know. In fact, for some gay men it’s kind of a vain, cynical game. They flatter themselves by…”
“I told him I loved him.”
Shock registered on Evan’s face. “I wasn’t expecting to hear that. Did you mean it?”
“No. But I said it and he said it back.”
“When?”
“When we were going at it.”
“Okay.” Evan chewed on the implications. “Okay. So you’re going at it, getting close…”
“About to…”
“So you are on the brink of orgasm and you said, “I love you?”
“Yeah.”
“That doesn’t count. That’s like the standing ovation at a Broadway show. All that means is good job. Well done. Kudos.”
“I know. But he said it back. I said it reflexively, but he meant it. I led him on.”
“And when the moment passed did you tell him you didn’t mean it? Did you make clear that it was just a one-time thing?”
“Yes. Several times. But he pursued me all the way to Tulsa and wrecked my marriage.”
“You couldn’t have known he was unhinged.”
“I’m a money manager. I am trained to watch for moral hazard.”
Evan’s brow scrunched quizzically, “Moral what?”
“Moral hazard. Assuming imprudent risk thinking that you have hedged sufficiently to avoid any consequences. Quicksand. I risked my marriage thinking that I was shielded from consequences by distance and anonymity. But the consequences came looking for me.”
“That’s right, you’re a money manager.” Evan hammered the point home. ”You’re not a psychiatrist. You aren’t trained to recognize an obsessive nutcase. All you did was succumb to human temptation because you are an actual human being.”
I retaliated against his compassion. “That’s why quicksand is a motherfucker. You have to assume it’s always out there, somewhere, waiting to suck you down. I was arrogant and figured I could tiptoe around the consequences and I lost everything I ever wanted.”
I drained my wine glass as I stood. “This is a good time to say goodnight.”.
Evan followed me as I took my glass to the kitchen sink. “I’m sorry, Alan. I feel like I killed the buzz big time.”
“No, Evan. You’ve provided the only buzz this house has had in years. Thanks for that. Goodnight.
________
In the morning, I punished myself in the clubhouse gym. It was Saturday and I got several offers to play a round of golf, all of which I declined.
Evan was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee as I dropped the newspaper in front of him. I attempted to smooth over the previous night’s weirdness by mussing his hair. With a banana in hand, I made for the shower. When I returned refreshed and dressed, Evan was waiting for me. He pointed to a picture in the paper.
“That’s my car,” he said.
The photo showed the fire department dousing a half dozen vehicles in the long-term parking lot at the airport. At the center was a particularly blackened hulk with a gutted interior and smoke billowing from smoldering tires. I took Evan’s word that it was his maroon Volvo.
“The article says that an incendiary device was placed under the fuel tank of my car.” His voice quivered with panic. “The others were just collateral damage.”
“Get your laptop. You need to check your email.”
As I suspected, there was an email from Detective Hardesty containing a link to the newspaper story and the terse message: Call me. Evan became more panicked by the second. He asked to borrow my phone.
“No. Remember, you’re somewhere in New York City.”
“Well, how can I call Hardesty without using a phone?”
I thought for a minute. “WWSBD?”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“What would Stringer Bell do?”
“Alan, don’t toy with me. Who the fuck is Stringer Bell?”
“Didn’t you watch The Wire? The HBO series The Wire. Didn’t you see it?”
“You can be exasperating, do you know that?”
I instructed Evan to follow the rules. “Stay away from windows. Don’t answer the door. Don’t peek out the drapes. Most importantly, stay calm. You’re safe. This proves the thugs are convinced you caught a plane.”
I drove to my favorite breakfast cafe and forced myself to eat a leisurely brunch. Then I did my best impersonation of a spy making sure he wasn’t being followed. Driving through parking lots. Doing U-turns. Watching my rearview mirror. When I was sure no one was on my tail, I went to a Dollar General store and bought a burner phone with pre-paid minutes. I paid with cash. I did everything right.
Evan was still at the table looking haggard with worry when I got back. “You took your fucking time,” he bitched.
“I was being careful. Now calm down and call Hardesty on this thing. Remember, you’re staying with a friend in New York City.”
Evan put the phone on speaker so I could listen in. Hardesty was his usual zombie self. “You saw the article?”
“Yes. They’re sending me a message I guess.”
“Right. They’re not going away.”
Evan’s head was in his hands and his voice was on the verge of despair. “Are they insane?”
“My assessment is that one is merely a sociopath. The other one is definitely psycho, though.” He let that sink in. “What’s left of your car was towed to the police lot. You’re insured, right?”
“Yes. But this will send my rates through the roof.”
Lucy hopped in Evan’s lap and started her low-rider purring.
“You’re getting off cheap,” Hardesty shot back. “You took your cat with you?”
“My friend has cats. Three, actually.” I gave Evan’s improv a thumbs up. “This apartment smells like a litterbox.”
“That’s better than how your car smells right now.”
Evan exploded. “Look, Detective, are you trying to upset me? ‘Cause I don’t even know why all of this is happening.”
Hardesty snapped back. “It’s happening because your demented bedfellow got himself murdered. Shot to shit, in professional parlance. Probably in the immediate aftermath of an argument. Whoever did it is scared and acting in the only way they know how. With brute stupidity. So I recommend you stay hidden until they fuck up in a way that we can take them off the street.”
“Murder is not fucking up enough for you? Or arson? Or intimidating my neighbor Alan?”
“How did you know about the incident with your neighbor?”
Evan got a panicked look in his eyes. I hastily made a typing motion with my hands. “You’re not the only one with my email address, Detective.”
“Stay hidden, Mr. Wilcox, and let us do our job.”
Evan hung up and gave me a flustered look. “It’s okay,” I reassured. “You covered nicely. Good call with that litterbox comment, by the way.”
Evan just shook his head. “I’m not cut out for this,” he said. “What now?”
“We watch golf,” I said glibly in an effort to assuage Evan’s mounting dread.
It was mid-afternoon when my phone rang.
“Mr. Eberson, this is Detective Hardesty, Tulsa P.D.”
“What can I do for you, Detective?”
“I got a call at 11:43 from your neighbor, Evan Wilcox, using a burner phone.”
“Okay. Why are you telling me this?”
“You’re right, there’s no need for me to tell you, is there? Because you purchased that phone at 11:17 at the Dollar General store on Peoria Avenue. Now would you please put me on speaker so Mr. Wilcox can hear me, too?”
Sheepishly, I did as I was instructed. “Okay, Detective. You’re on speaker.”
“Can you hear me, Mr. Wilcox?”
I nodded to Evan. “Yes, Detective, I can hear you.”
“I just want you to know that it only took us two hours to track down the purchase of the phone and view the transaction on the security tape.”
I gulped. I had been overly confident of my subterfuge. “I tried to be careful, Detective.” Chastened, I admitted, “Obviously not careful enough.”
Hardesty sounded uncommonly sympathetic. “It was a good effort, but a bribe can be as persuasive as my badge when it comes to under-paid store managers. I tracked it because I had the phone number from the call. Mr. Wilcox, do not use that phone for anything other than calling me or 9-1-1. Not even to call your buddy Eberson. Am I clear?”
We answered in a bad duet, “Yes, Sir.”
Hardesty continued in a mollifying tone, “I know you’re both frustrated and stressed but I assure you we are on the case. Mr. Wilcox, you stay hidden. And Mr. Eberson, you keep being careful. I promise we are doing our job.”
After I hung up, we went back to watching the golf tournament. Watching is the wrong word. Staring blankly at the screen is more accurate.
“Alan, I’m scared.” Evan’s voice wavered with trepidation. “I thought this constant fear was over but I’m scared.”
I tried to sound assured. “You heard the detective. We’re safe as long as you stay hidden and I’m careful.”
“Right. What am I worried about? Only one of them is a psychopath.”
We laughed louder than the humor warranted.