Sean laughs and it’s all Mike can do to stop himself from taking him into his arms right then and there. He thinks, Well, there’s nothing stopping me, but the kiss on the wrist was enough for now. He wants to do this right. He always wants to do right by Sean.
“I know,” Sean says. “I’m just trying to rattle your cage.”
Mike mock scowls at him and says, “Right-o,” but then smiles to show he’s in on the joke too.
“You know what’s funny?” Sean says, pushing open the door and taking a step inside.
“What’s that?”
Sean looks over his shoulder back at Mike. “Migraine’s gone.”
“Good,” Mike says. “The meds must be working fine.”
“The meds,” Sean says. “That must be it. Yeah.” He winks at Mike and closes the door.
And if Mike stands there on the porch for a few minutes looking a little awed?
Well.
That’s his business and no one else’s.
conditional statements
IV
HE’S IN his bed, hands behind his head, Martin purring like a rusty old motor on his chest, when he hears a voice coming from the kitchen.
It says, “—it’s like you’re not even trying, Julienne, Jesus fucking Christ, don’t you see what’s happening here? He’s—”
And then it’s gone.
Mike Frazier can be called many things. A nice guy, a good friend. A pillar of the community. He’s well-liked, even loved by some people. He’s kind, courteous, and respectful.
But Mike Frazier is also human, and he’s heard a voice in the dark in what should be his empty house.
There’s a buzzing in his ears as gooseflesh prickles along his arms. Martin acts like nothing has happened at all, and that should give Mike pause, should tell him that maybe he was dozing and partway into a dream, but then he hears another voice, this one distinctly female, and it’s angry when it says, “—know what I’m doing. I always know what I’m doing. You can’t expect it to be flawless all the time, there are limits—”
It too cuts off.
Mike is awake.
He knows he’s awake.
This isn’t a dream.
He pushes Martin off his chest, much to Martin’s great, growly displeasure. He pulls the blanket off himself, sliding out of bed wearing loose-fitting cotton pajama bottoms that are getting a little short at the ankles. He stands in his darkened room, trying to keep his breathing even and calm, and just waits.
There’s nothing aside from the creak of the settling house. No voices. No footsteps. No movement in the house.
For a moment, there’s a flash of regret that he doesn’t have a pistol, but the very idea of needing something so vulgar in Amorea makes him uneasy. Pistols are for Marlowe and for the silver screen. Not for their little town.
Instead, he opens the closet door as quietly as he can and reaches toward the back for the old wooden Slugger he hasn’t touched in years. He has to dig for it, but keeps an ear trained toward the rest of the house. His finger brushes wood, and he wraps his hand around the ash handle. He pulls it from the closet, comforted by its weight.
Martin stares at him as if he’s the most perplexing thing to have ever existed. And the stupidest.
And he might be, since he moves toward the bedroom door, trying to think of who could have possibly broken into his house, what they could possibly hope to get from him. Mike’s a man of simple means. He doesn’t have many things. The only thing of any value is probably his book collection, or the wooden console radio in the living room, something he splurged on to listen to the serials.
But despite any fear he might feel, he’s also offended. He’s offended that someone would even think of entering his home uninvited, whether or not for nefarious purposes. He’s offended that something like this could happen in Amorea. He knows the people here, and chances are he’s going to know who it is in his house, and that offends him. There’s a little voice in the back of his head, buried deep, deep, deep that whispers, What if it’s an outsider? What if it’s a stranger? but the thought is preposterous, because there are no strangers in Amorea. And if there were, he’d have met them by now and they wouldn’t be strangers anymore.