Anna imagined having the cot in the warehouse. She could take a little snooze whenever she liked, then get up and go back to work. “That would be wonderful,” she said. “Thank you for the offer.”

“What about William?” Miss Myrtle said, and it took them all a moment to realize she was returning the conversation to baby names. Miss Myrtle looked at her daughter. “That’s a good strong name, don’t you think?”

The following day, Anna stopped by Pauline’s to pick up the cot where they’d left it for her on their front porch, since neither Pauline nor Karl were at home. The cot was compactly folded and Anna set it on the backseat of the Ford, then turned the car around in the wide driveway. She’d nearly reached the street again when one of those red Indian motorcycles sped around the corner and whizzed past the front of her car at breakneck speed. Startled, Anna pressed hard on the brake, the cot whacking into the back of her seat, sending her heart into her throat. Her leg trembled on the brake as she stared after the motorcycle and its rider: Martin Drapple, his red hair far too long and wild from the wind, speeding down the road like a maniac on a mission. She’d heard rumors that his wife had kicked him out of the house, so perhaps Mrs. Drapple had kept the car and this was Martin’s new transportation. Anna didn’t know. All she knew was that she was glad he no longer came around the warehouse. That slap he’d given his wife still rang in her ears.

Chapter 43. Morgan

Chapter 43

MORGAN

July 12, 2018

Rebecca’s gaze dropped to my walking boot as I limped into her office that morning.

“I already heard about this,” she said, gesturing toward the boot.

I dropped into the chair next to her desk, my guard suddenly up. “How could you have already heard about it?” I asked.

“Your supervisor-slash-landlady called me.”

I groaned. Lisa had been angry that morning when I told her how I ended up with the sprained ankle. I hadn’t expected sympathy from her, exactly, but I didn’t expect her to go ballistic.

“I’m not paying you to hang out in a bar,” she’d said, her brown eyes blazing. “I would have thought you’d learned your lesson about that sort of thing.”

“I was only there to get dinner,” I’d argued back. I should have backed down, but I’d been exhausted after so little sleep, plus my ankle was killing me and my patience was thin. “And as soon as the fight broke out, I left. At least, I tried to leave. But that’s when my foot got caught in the rungs of the barstool.”

Lisa had only stared. “You’re scaring me,” she said finally. “Don’t let it happen again.”