Regloving, he picked up the murder book, headed for the front door, said, “Sayonara. It’s almost been fun.” As he stepped outside, he said: “Be there for Robin’s call. Deal with it, Alex.”

“Sure.”

“I don’t like when you get agreeable.”

“Then screw you.”

He grinned. “Ah.”

I sat there a long time, feeling low. Wondering if Robin would call from Eugene. Figuring if she didn’t within a couple of hours, I’d go somewhere, anywhere.

I fell asleep at the dining room table. The phone woke me two hours later.

“Alex.”

“Hi.”

“I finally got you,” she said. “I’ve tried so many times.”

“Been out. Sorry.”

“Out of town?”

“Just errands. How’s it going?”

“Fine. Great—the tour. We’ve been getting excellent publicity. Sellout crowds.”

“How’s Oregon?”

“Green, pretty. Mostly I’ve seen soundstages.”

“How’s Spike?”

“He’s good . . . adapting . . . I miss you.”

“Miss you, too.”

“Alex?”

“Uh-huh?”

“What’s—are you okay?”

“Sure . . . so tell me, are sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll what they’re cracked up to be?”

“It’s not like that,” she said.

“Which part? The sex or the drugs?”

Silence. “I’m working really hard,” she said. “Everyone is. The logistics are incredible, putting everything together.”

“Exciting.”

“It’s satisfying.”

“I’d hope so,” I said.

Longer silence. “I feel,” she said, “that you’re very far away from me. And please don’t be literal.”

“As opposed to metaphorical?”

“You’re angry.”

“I’m not, I love you.”

“I really do miss you, Alex.”

“Nothing’s stopping you from coming home anytime,” I said.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?” I said. “What, it’s turned into a heavy metal tour, shackles and chains?”

“Please don’t be like this, Alex.”

“Like what?”

“Sarcastic—veiled. I know you’re mad at me, and that’s probably the real reason you didn’t call me back right away, but—”

“You leave, and I’m the bad guy?” I said. “Yes, the real reason we missed each other was I was in no shape to talk to anyone. Not anger, I just got . . . hollow. After that I did try to call but like you said, you’re busy. I’m not angry, I’m . . . do what you need to do.”

“Do you want me to quit?”

“No, you’d never forgive me for that.”

“I want to stay.”

“Then stay.”

“Oh, Alex . . .”

“I’ll try to be Mr. Cheerful,” I said.

“No, I don’t want that.”

“Probably couldn’t pull it off anyway. Never been much of a performer—guess I wouldn’t fit in with your new buddies.”

“Alex, please . . . oh, damn—Hold on! They’re calling me, some sort of crisis—dammit, I don’t want to sign off like this—”

“Do what you need to do,” I said.

“I’ll call you later—I love you, Alex.”

“Love-you-too.”

Click.

Good work, Delaware. For this we sent you to therapist school?