The day caught up with him quickly. All the muscles in his body felt like they were melting. There was nothing he could do right now, but he felt guilty for being home, sitting in his chair, while the killer was out there. The digital clock on the cable box said 1:33. Will hadn't realized how late it was, and the knowledge brought on something like a slow ache. When Betty jumped into his lap, he could barely move to pet her.
Angie said, "I wish you knew how ridiculous you look with that thing on your knee."
He stared at the coffee table, the fingerprints on the polished wood. There was an empty glass of wine beside an open bag of Doritos. His stomach rumbled at the sight of the chips, but he was too tired to reach down and get one. "You didn't tighten the lid on the garbage last night," he told her. "A dog or something got into it. Trash was all over the yard this morning."
"You should've woken me up."
"It's no big deal." He paused, letting her know that it was. "Aren't you going to ask me about Paul?"
"That soon?" she asked. "I was at least going to give you time to settle."
When Paul had first come to the children's home, Will had idolized him. He was everything Will wasn't: charming, popular, circumcised. It all seemed to come so naturally to him—even Angie. Though honestly, Angie was easy for everybody. Well, everybody at that point but Will. He still didn't know why Paul had hated him so much. It took about a week of tension before the older boy started openly picking on him, then another week before Paul started using his fists.
Will told Angie, "He's still calling me Trashcan."
"You were found in a trashcan."
"That was a long time ago."
She shrugged, like it was easy. "Start calling him cocksucker."
"That'd be a little cruel considering what his daughter probably went through." Will amended, "Is still going through."
They both stared silently at the television. A diet pill commercial was on—the befores and afters. It seemed like everybody wanted to change something about their lives. He wished there was a pill he could take that would get Emma back. No matter who her father was, the girl was still just an innocent child. Even Paul didn't deserve to lose his daughter. No one did.
Will glanced at Angie, then back at the TV. "What kind of parents do you think we'd be?"
She nearly choked on her own tongue. "Where the hell did that come from?"
"I dunno." He stroked Betty's head, picking at her ears. "I was just wondering."
Angie's mouth worked as she dealt with the shock. "Wondering what, whether he'd be a drug addict like my mother or a psychopath like your father?"
Will shrugged.
She sat up on the couch. "What would we tell him about how we met? Just give him a copy of Flowers in the Attic and hope for the best?"
He shrugged again, tugging at Betty's ears. "Assuming he can read."
Angie didn't laugh. "What are we going to tell him about why we got married? Normal kids ask about that kind of shit all the time, Will. Did you know that?"
"Is there a book about a daddy giving a mommy an ultimatum after she gives him syphilis?"
Will looked up when she did not answer. The corner of Angie's lip curled into a smile. "That's actually the next movie after this one."
"Yeah?"
"Meryl Streep plays the mother."
"Some of her best work has been with syphilis." He felt Angie staring at him and kept his attention on Betty, scratching her head until her back foot started to thump.
Angie smoothly steered the subject back to something easier. "What's Paul's wife look like?"
"Pretty," he said, jerking back his hand as Betty gave him a nip. "Actually, she's beautiful."
"I'd bet you my left one he's cheating on her."
Will shook his head. "She's the whole package. Tall, blond, smart, classy."
Her eyebrow went up, but they both knew Will's type leaned more toward gutter-mouthed brunettes with the self-destructive habit of saying exactly what was on their minds. Natalie Maines in a wig would be a concern. Abigail Campano was nothing more than a curiosity.
"Be that as it may," Angie said, "men don't cheat on their wives because they aren't pretty or smart or sexy enough. They cheat because they want an uncomplicated fuck, or because they're bored, or because their wives don't put up with their bullshit anymore."
Betty jumped onto the floor and shook herself out. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Do that." Angie used her foot to block Betty from getting on the couch. He could easily see her doing the same thing with a toddler. Will stared at Angie's toenails, which were painted a bright red. He couldn't imagine her sitting around with a little girl getting a pedicure. Of course, three months ago, he couldn't imagine Angie ever settling down, either.
When she'd called him to say that he had to go to the free clinic to get tested, he'd been so furious he'd thrown the telephone through a kitchen window. There had been a lot of fighting after that—something Will hated and Angie fed off of. For almost thirty years, they had followed this pattern. Angie would cheat on him, he would send her away, she would come back a few weeks or months later and it would all start over again.
Will was sick of being on that treadmill. He wanted to settle down, to have some semblance of a normal life. There was hardly a long line of women waiting to sign up for the job. Will had so much baggage that he needed a claim check every time he left the house.
Angie knew about his life. She knew about the scar on the back of his head where he'd been whacked with a shovel. She knew how his face had gotten torn up and why he got nervous every time he saw the glow of a cigarette. He loved her—there was no question about that. Maybe he didn't love her with passion, maybe he wasn't really in love with her at all, but Will felt safe with her, and sometimes, that was the one thing that mattered the most.
Out of nowhere, she said, "Faith Mitchell's a good cop."
"That was a mighty informative phone call you made today," Will commented, wondering who at the Atlanta Police Department had been so chatty. "I investigated her mother."
"She didn't do it," Angie said, but Will knew her defense was the automatic type that cops used, sort of like a gesundheit when somebody sneezed.
"She's got an eighteen-year-old kid."
"I'm hardly in a position to denigrate teenage slutdom." Angie added, "Be careful around Faith. She's going to figure you out in about ten seconds flat."
Will sighed, feeling it deep in his chest. He stared at the kitchen doorway. The light had been left on. He could see the bread was on the counter, an open jar of Duke's beside it. He had just bought that mayonnaise. Was she that wasteful or was she trying to send him some kind of message?
A shadow crossed over him, and he looked up to see Angie. She got in the chair, straddling him, her arms resting on his shoulders. Will ran his hands along her legs, but she stopped him from going any farther. Angie never gave anything for free, which she proved by saying, "Why did you ask about kids?"
"Just making conversation."
"Pretty strange conversation."