My feet took me down the main street, toward the seedier side of town. Prostitutes stood about on the corners, most of them scantily clad. If they were fortunate, a heated car would pull to the curb and they would climb in with a paying customer. If not, they would wobble on their high heels into a heated barroom, where they would warm their knees and try to stir up some activity inside. It was hard weather for hookers, especially this close to Christmas.

I sauntered past them, ignoring their glares, ig­noring the noisy warmth that exploded onto the street every time a saloon door opened, ignored the long dirty boys who stood passing plastic packets between themselves, ignored the short-­haired men in uniform who made rude comments as they roamed the streets in packs.

I noticed these things merely as peripheral de­tails. My mind was busy with Boyd as I walked down the gritty sidewalk, past the adult bookstores and peep shows.

As I walked, I recounted our conversation in the truck. I tried to make sense of it. I tried to find a thread of reason to pull the conversation together. Boyd and I were too close; we were too much of the same fabric. We were like identical pieces of cloth from different dye lots; they are too dif­ferent to match, yet too close to contrast. It was a peculiar situation. I could understand his point of view. At least, I could comprehend under­standing it. Boyd would not allow my point of view at all.

Not at all.

Who is he to disallow my opinion? For some reason, my indignation snapped up this rationaliza­tion for resentment and began to nurture it. By the time I was deep into the hollowed and empty down­town area of Westwater, I was burning with a furious rage at Boyd and his brother and the sniveling wimp Julie and the entire posse they had arranged to track and mutilate Dan’s killer. If only they knew. If only they knew. If only . . .

Maybe I should volunteer to go with them.

Don’t get too crazy, Angelina, I told myself. Let’s not go off the deep end here.

I had to stop and look at myself in a storefront reflection. I looked at my diminutive stature, my tiny little face and features, my short-­cut blonde hair, and I thought of stalking the stalkers who beat through the bush trying to scare up a crazed coyote. The thought made me smile in spite of my rage, and sanity again flooded in. Forget it, Angelina, I told my reflection. My mirrored self nodded back and I resumed walk­ing.