I didn’t argue, like a switch had clicked off.

Stumbled out of my seat and stumbled back into the living room and stumbled down the stairs and stumbled out into the shop and then through the front door, out into the light of the street.

I didn’t stop until I had walked another four blocks and had no real idea where I was, caught my breath, tried to slow everything down.

A coffee shop looked like a kind of haven. I sat down heavy in a seat, ignoring the frown of the barista cleaning tables.

I kept picking up my regular phone to call the police. Putting it back down again on the table. I ordered a Red Eye. I drank it quick, even though it scalded my throat. Should I call the police? And tell them what? That Fusk had threatened me after I impersonated a detective? What kind of offense was that in this state? How would this tip my hand to people who might be watching? To whoever had tracked my search on Larry’s computer.

Had I given my real name? I couldn’t remember. Had I done anything that Fusk could trace back to me? Didn’t think so. Couldn’t be sure.

I was still clutching the book about fur. Even though the words were meaningless now.

[34]

A layover in Chicago on the way back, because of bad weather in our path. The kind you can’t fly through. Also, once we landed, some mechanical issue. So we would have to change planes. Another delay. Well, that was the way of it with miracles like flight. The magic had become tawdry, tattered, excruciating.

By the time I had had a couple drinks in an airport bar, my panic had faded and the encounter with Fusk taken on an almost daring, swashbuckling tinge. Memory fucks with you when it tries to protect you. A third bourbon and Coke, and part of me thought I’d been calm when Fusk pulled the gun. That I’d expected something like that. That I could’ve subdued him in close quarters if I’d needed to, with an MMA or wrestling move. Cheers—have another drink.

Fusk, I decided, had been the kind of encounter I’d been seeking at the hotel bar. The purest distillation of it. The kind that’s dangerous but not dangerous. The gun probably hadn’t even been loaded. I’d tell my grandchildren about it someday. How foolish their grandmother had been.

Which made guilt well up, and I texted my daughter. Direct, not through my husband.

>>Headed home, kumquat. How’re you? School good? Dad picking you up on time?

Nothing for several minutes. Then:

>>Not much. It’s all cool. Dad’s out in the yard a lot. Patrolling. See you soon.