A Slow Walk to Hell Read Free Page B

pictured Amanda staring at the caller ID, trying to decide whether to answer. For the first time in months, she picked up. “Hello, Marty.”
    She didn’t sound happy.
     
    We conversed less than thirty seconds. Amanda kept her voice clipped and professional and never mentioned her aversion to working with me. Since the school was en route to Arlington, Amanda said she’d swing by and pick me up.
    I asked her to stop by my place and retrieve my weapon, OSI credentials, latex gloves, and a notepad. “Mrs. Anuncio knows where they are.” Mrs. Anuncio was my live-in housekeeper.
    “Fifteen minutes.”
    After Amanda clicked off, I made two quick phone calls. The first was to Sara Winters, whose daughter was also at the dance. “Sure, Marty,” Sara said, “I’ll be glad to give Emily a ride home.” Next, I phoned Mark Haney, my senior deputy, and told him that he’d be running the office, while I moonlighted with the OSI.
    Clipping my phone to my belt, I swung over to Coach English and Mrs. Roche, and informed them that I had to bail out on chaperone duties. When I broke the news to Emily that I’d been called out on a case, she couldn’t stop smiling. Walking away from her, it occurred to me that the two most important women in my life didn’t want me around.
    A guy could get a complex.
     
    It was a cool spring night and I’d only been waiting on the sidewalk for a few minutes when I spotted the gold Saab turn into the parking lot. I walked toward it, waving my arms. As it rolled to a stop, I went over and got inside.
    AC/DC played on the radio. Anything softer than heavy metal Amanda considered easy listening. I gave her a smile. She watched me for a moment and seemed about to say something. Instead, she bit her lip and nodded tersely toward the back seat. “Your stuff’s in my briefcase.”
    “Thanks.” Popping the latches to retrieve the items, I decided not to force the conversation. It was clear that my presence wasn’t easy for her.
    Five minutes later, we merged onto State Highway 26 for the hour drive to Arlington. Amanda never said a word and I could feel the tension between us. Easing back in my seat, I risked a glance and saw her fixated straight ahead. Under the flickering streetlights, I studied her profile and thought she’d never looked more beautiful. Over the past several months, she’d shifted away from the butch image that she’d crafted for herself. She was allowing her red hair to grow out and it now framed the perfect oval of her face. Her skin was tight, her complexion flawless, and she wore more makeup than usual. I also became aware of the scent of perfume, another recent concession to femininity.
    My eyes drifted down to her suit. Another sign of the new Amanda. As long as I’ve known her, she’s favored loose fitting and neutral colored clothing; this suit was an eye-catching red, stylishly cut, with a flared gold collar. In the OSI, we wore civilian clothing because we’re more effective when no one knows our rank. Officers can be a pain in the ass when they’re questioned by someone they outrank and enlisted personnel feel intimidated when grilled by someone they know is an officer.
    I slowly faced front, troubled by a sudden realization.
    When I’d first noticed Amanda’s increasingly feminine makeover, I had enough ego to assume she’d made the changes for me. But thinking back, that conclusion didn’t make sense. She’d been avoiding me for months. She made it clear that she didn’t want me to see her.
    So she must have made the changes for someone else.
     
    By the time we reached I-395 twenty minutes later, Amanda was still giving me the silent treatment. This was ridiculous. Turning down the radio, I said, “Look, we’re both professionals. We should be able to handle this situation.”
    She concentrated on her driving. “I am handling it.”
    “By not talking to me.”
    A shrug. “We’re talking now.”
    “You know what I mean.” I hesitated. “General