Page 107 of Trace of Doubt
“He’s worried about you, and his voice sounded like the look on your face.”
I shook my head and connected with Denton. “I’m grilling deer steaks for tonight. Will you be here in time?”
His familiar chuckle relaxed me. “I have enough hots-t-a-k-e-sright here. Amy-Jo suspects we’re up to something.”
“Were you at the café?”
“No. She paid me a visit. I’d never seen her dressed in black with a baseball cap—or packing. But the pink-and-green eye shadow were all hers. She had a feeling you were in trouble when the sheriff told her about you taking off. She demanded answers to where you’d gone.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Said you took off, violated your parole. She called me a liar and drilled me with questions. Relentless. I confirmed a few things of interest about our Amy-Jo. Right now she’s clueless, and I’ll do my best to keep that intact. We could have drawn her into our plan.”
My face burned hot. “Denton, you’d have placed her in danger.”
“Let me tell you about her past.”
“I’m listening. Better make it good.”
“She started the story with the words, ‘Honey, I may look like a chubby throwback from the eighties with an intense fondness for Cyndi Lauper, but this lady retired from the Army, rear-deep in black ops.’”
“Whoa. You’re kidding, right?”
“I confirmed every word. She backed it up by showing me her S&W and her permit.”
I recalled the first time I’d met Amy-Jo—mango-colored hair, purple eye shadow, pink large-framed glasses, and ruby-red lipstick. Eccentric but not ex–black ops.
“Shelby, have you fainted?”
“Thinking about it. What else?”
“We talked about some of the places in Europe where she’d worked, not specifics. She wants you to know she’s on your side, and she wished she’d been a part of whatever you’re doing. Claims you’d be safe with her, and she’s bored.” He laughed. “She’s ready for more excitement than burning a batch of cookies or stepping on the scales.”
Amy-Jo’s confession sent me into laughter. Hysterical. Healing. Howling. Laughter.
64
Mom used to tell me nothing good happened after midnight. The clock on the wall displayed that ill-fitted hour, and if my mind listened to logic, it would shut down so I could sleep. Mike and I played Monopoly using pinto beans for houses and black beans for hotels. I lost more beans than I could count, and usually I cleaned up.
“You should get some sleep,” he said for the third time.
“Too many cylinders are firing in my brain.”
“Try warm milk.”
I’d run into people who surprised me with their unpredictable behaviors, like Edie’s fear of bats and Amy-Jo’s military background, but an FBI agent who wore a milk mustache and played Monopoly?
“I’d rather forgo sleep. When do you plan to rest?”
“I’m used to catching up when I can. Part of the job. You, on the other hand, need your mind and body in gear.”
I protested, and we compromised. He’d stretch out on the couch for the first three hours, then I’d wake him. We closed the blinds, and I sat at the kitchen table with a dimly lit lamp from a bedroom. My insomnia gave me time to journal all I remembered about the afternoon Travis had died. Memories of the games with Marissa flowed into my thoughts too.
Through Mike’s soft snores and rhythmic breathing, I wrote page after page of recollections until my hand cramped, a small price to pay for weeding out my thoughts. Closing my eyes, I replayed the conversation. Marissa claimed before I entered the house that Travis had threatened her. I hadn’t heard those words. In fact, I couldn’t remember him ever raising his voice to her.
“Put the gun down,” he’d said after her outburst of hate. “We can talk this out.”
“Too late, Travis.”
