T is for Trespass (Kinsey Millhone 20)

One happy side effect of her disappearance was that she was a no-show in court the day of the hearing on the restraining order. The matter was dismissed, but I was still going to need a judge’s orders to get my guns back. I knew in my heart of hearts, I wasn’t done with her, nor she with me. I’d been responsible for the death of her only child and I’d pay for that.

In the meantime, I told myself there was no point in worrying. Solana was gone and if she came back, she’d come back and I’d deal with her then. I put the matter behind me. It was done, done, done. I couldn’t change what had happened and I couldn’t give in to the emotions that ran like a riptide under the placid surface I presented to the world. Henry knew better. Tactfully, he probed, wondering aloud how I was coping with Tiny’s death, suggesting that perhaps I might benefit from “talking to someone.”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” I said. “I did what I had to do. He didn’t have to attack me. He didn’t have to jam his fist through the glass. Those were his choices. I made mine. What’s the big deal? It’s not like he’s the first guy I ever killed.”

“Well, that puts it in a fresh light.”

“Henry, I appreciate your concern, but it’s misplaced.”

I was aware that I sounded testy, but aside from that, I felt fine. At least that’s what I told him and anyone else who asked. Despite the brave face I wore, I went through my days with a low-level dread I could scarcely acknowledge. I wanted closure. I needed to have all the loose ends tied up. As long as she was out there, I didn’t feel safe. I was afraid. “Terrified” was a better word. I realized later I was experiencing a form of post-traumatic stress disorder, but at the time all I knew was how hard I had to work to suppress my anxiety. I had no appetite. I didn’t have trouble falling asleep, but I’d wake up at 4:00 A.M. and that would be the end of it. I couldn’t concentrate. I was fearful of crowds and unnerved by loud noises. At the end of every day, I was exhausted from having to maintain such a tight grip on myself. Fear, like any other strong emotion, is difficult to hide. Much of my energy was devoted to denying it was there.

My only relief came from my early morning run. I craved movement. I loved the feeling of flying over the ground. I needed to be sweaty and out of breath. If my legs hurt and my lungs burned, all the better. There was something tangible about the calm that came over me when I was done. I started pushing myself, adding a mile to the three I typically put in. When that wasn’t quite enough, I ramped up the pace.

The lull was short-lived. Sunday, February 14, was the last day I’d be able to enjoy the quiet-artificial though it may have been. In the coming week, though I didn’t know it yet, Solana would make her move. Valentine’s Day was Henry’s birthday, and Rosie treated us to dinner to celebrate his turning eighty-eight. The restaurant was closed on Sundays, so we had the place to ourselves. Rosie put together a feast and William helped serve. There were just the four of us: Rosie, William, Henry, and me. We had to do without Lewis, Charlie, and Nell because the Midwest was socked in with snow and the sibs were stranded until the airport opened again. Henry and Charlotte had mended their fences. I thought for sure he’d invite her, but he was reluctant to stir up any suggestion of romance between them. She would always be too driven and single-minded for his laid-back lifestyle. He said he wanted only his nearest and dearest with him while he blew out his candles, beaming at our lusty rendition of “Happy Birthday to Yooouuu!” Rosie, William, and I pooled our money and bought him three copper-bottom saucepans that he adored.

Monday morning, I got to work at eight-early for me, but I hadn’t slept well and I’d ended up going out for my run at five thirty instead of six, which put me at the office half an hour ahead of my usual time. One virtue of my office-perhaps the only virtue-was that there was always parking available in front. I parked, locked my car, and let myself in. There was the usual hillock of mail piled on the floor under the slot. Most of it was junk that would go straight into the trash, but topmost was a padded envelope that I assumed was another set of documents from Lowell Effinger’s office. Melvin Downs had failed to appear for his deposition, and I’d promised Geneva that I’d go after him again and have another heart-to-heart. Clearly, he’d been unimpressed by the threat of contempt of court.

I dropped my shoulder bag on my desk. I slid out of my jacket and draped it over the back of my chair. I tackled the manila envelope, which was stapled shut and took a bit of doing before I opened it. I separated the flaps and looked in. At the first glance, I shrieked and flung the envelope across the room. The action was involuntary, a reflex triggered by revulsion. What I’d glimpsed was the hairy appendages of a live tarantula. I literally shuddered, but I didn’t have time to calm myself or gather my wits.