Page 118 of The Homewreckers
“Christ,” Trae growled, covering his eyes. “Turn that thing off.”
Mo flicked on the overhead light. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “I heard screams clear up by the road. I thought someone else was being murdered.”
Hattie could feel her cheeks growing hot with embarrassment. “It’s fine. We’ve been sanding floors all night. Guess we got a little punchy. We were goofing around, and, uh, Trae fell.”
“Why are you here?” Trae asked, dusting the sawdust off his clothes.
“I came back for my notebook,” Mo said. He glared back at Trae. “I could ask the same of you, because I know you weren’t sanding any of these floors.”
“He was helping me,” Hattie said lamely. Her jeans and shirt, even her hair, were flecked with sawdust.
Mo’s eyes traveled from Hattie’s disheveled clothes to her crimson face. “Uh-huh.”
“What are you, her chaperone?” Trae looked over at Hattie. “I don’t need this shit. I’m heading to town. See you in the morning.”
As he passed Mo on the way out the front door, he added softly, “Fuck you.”
Hattie sagged a little against the wall. “I need to get home too,” she said, avoiding Mo’s questioning gaze, which settled on the pizza box and empty champagne bottle.
“Are you okay to drive?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said. “I’m fine.” She looked around the room. “I just need to find my keys and my phone. And my dog.”
“Ribsy? You didn’t bring him to work today, did you?”
“Ohhh. Right. I gave Ribsy the day off. Lucky dog.” She started to giggle, which turned into a hiccup. She walked somewhat unsteadily toward the kitchen and Mo followed her, switching on lights as he went.
“Here you are!” she said triumphantly, scooping her car keys and phone from the counter, then promptly dropping them onto the floor. “Whoops!”
Mo walked out to the back porch and found his Moleskine precisely where he remembered having seen it last. He tucked it into the pocket of his jeans.
“Hey,” he said, touching Hattie’s arm. “I think you should let me give you a ride home. It’s late, and I get the impression you’ve maybe had a little too much champagne.”
“Noooo,” she started, and then sighed. “Okay. You’re right.”
He pulled alongside the cop, who was standing outside his cruiser, sipping from a foam cup.
“Thanks, Officer,” he said. “The house is locked up tight, and nobody else should need to go back there tonight.”
The cop nodded and gave him a thumbs-up sign.
Hattie sat in the passenger seat, looking straight ahead.
“I’m a grown woman, you know,” she said abruptly. “What Trae and I do with our personal lives is none of your business.”
“You were screaming bloody murder,” he protested. “What was I supposed to think? The house was dark, I saw your truck parked outside. I thought someone was trying to maim you. Excuse me for being concerned for your safety.”
“At first. And then you jumped to conclusions and got all weird,” Hattie said. “Admit it. You hate the idea of me being with Trae.”
Mo gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles cracked. “Itisnone of my business,” he said finally. “I have no opinion whatsoever about your private life.”
“Good,” she said, yawning. “Glad we got that straight.”
Mo kept his eyes on the road, but after a few moments, he glanced over to see that Hattie’s chin was resting on her chest. She was asleep, softly snoring.
Luckily, he remembered how to get to her house in Thunderbolt. He parked in the driveway, then walked around to the passenger side and tapped her on the shoulder. “Hattie. Wake up. You’re home.”
Her eyelashes fluttered open. She looked around and yawned. “Huh?”
