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She’d been advised there was a smoking area set aside specifically for students, which she argued was on the far side of campus and impossible to get to between classes.
Odd how fate is so often embedded in the aftermath of a simple conversation.
Fritz McCabe had been the shooter in the killing of a teenaged girl named Sloan Stevens.
Troy Rademaker had been found guilty of obstruction of justice, tampering with evidence, aiding and abetting, and lying to the police. Austin Brown, who was alleged to have engineered the killing, had fled and was still at large.
Though I was unaware of it at the time, this was a lull before the gathering storm, if you fancy such talk.
My Aunt Gin had raised me with a strongly worded caution about asking anything of others. Self-sufficiency was her goal. She frowned on the idea of dependency and social indebtedness. Given that she’d raised me from the age of five until her death when I was twenty-three, I was constitutionally unable to argue the point.
I managed to avoid both Henry and Pearl for the remainder of the weekend. Really, it was Henry’s business if he invited someone to move in. I counseled myself to keep my mouth shut, no small accomplishment for me.
“You know your problem? You really don’t understand what guys are about. You think you can be all nicey-nice and everything will be fine. Austin plays rough. You gotta hit him where it counts. He’s a gamesman.”
The odd but unremarkable truth about women is we’ve had the aggression bred right out of us.
How many of these houses did we have in town? Seemed like every time I turned around, I was looking at a Tudor-style house, expecting Ann Boleyn to emerge.
Whatever the problem, a desire to be helpful is a risky proposition, a lesson I never seem to learn.
“You can’t be sorry for my behavior or mental state. You can only be sorry for your own.”
It always comes back to the notion of doing a good deed, which I’ve known for years is the definition of disaster in the making.
From my perspective, her one redeeming quality was her fashion sense, which I’m embarrassed to admit I mimicked from the first. Now I wore flats and black tights, miniskirts, and turtlenecks when I wasn’t decked out in the usual jeans and boots. As a badass private investigator, I was never going to admit this to a living soul, but fair is fair.
The aggravating thing about exercise is that it prepares you solely for the one you’re engaged in. Biking, hiking, running, or lifting weights—the activity conditions you for that activity, but not necessarily for anything else.
