Loving Jessie Read Free

whole town had turned out for the annual barbecue, and he and Dana had run into Jessie waiting in line for a churro—a sweet fried twist of dough that was a specialty in the Hispanic community. He remembered he’d teased her about checking out the competition, and she’d laughed. That was a month ago and, before that…before that, the last time he’d seen her was at her grandfather’s funeral in February. Funny, how you could lose track of the people you cared about, even when they were right under your nose.
    God, he was tired. It was late. Dana was upstairs, asleep in the bed they still shared. He could go up and join her, but what was the point? It wasn’t as if she cared one way or another. She hadn’t said as much, hadn’t suggested by so much as a word or a glance that she would rather he moved into another room, but he doubted she would offer any argument if he made the suggestion.
    Reilly let his eyes close, let tiredness wash over him. What he wouldn’t give to be that twenty-three-year-old kid in the photo again—his whole life ahead of him, a second chance. Wouldn’t it be great to have nothing more important to worry about than how many bottles were remaining on that mythical wall?
    Matt Latimer shuddered faintly as he splashed the last few ounces of twenty-one-year-old Chivas into a plastictumbler. Should have kept out a glass when he was packing stuff up to give to Goodwill, he thought, contemplating the warm amber liquor through the clear plastic. He didn’t mind eating pizza straight out of the box, but when you started drinking good scotch out of plastic, could the end of civilization be far behind? Shrugging, he lifted the glass. What the hell, civilization hadn’t really lived up to its promise, anyway.
    With the first swallow of scotch warming him from the inside, he looked around the apartment he’d called home for the last eight years. No, actually, he couldn’t remember ever calling it home. It was just the place where he lived in those brief, restless intervals between assignments. Up until recently, he didn’t think he’d ever spent more than two consecutive weeks here, and the past few months of more or less enforced residence hadn’t exactly inspired him with warm and fuzzy feelings for the place. Still, it seemed as if, after eight years, there should be some evidence left of his occupation, even if his belongings were already packed, waiting to be loaded into his Jeep in the morning.
    But there was nothing—no holes in the walls from the certificates and awards he’d never bothered to hang, no worn spots on the carpet in front of a favorite chair that he was rarely around to sit in, no scuff marks on the plaster where he’d carelessly let the door bang back against the wall—nothing at all to suggest that someone had lived here for the better part of a decade. He hadn’t left yet, but the rooms already had the hollow echo of abandonment, as if they’d been empty a long time.
    He moved restlessly across the living room to stand in front of a window. One of the apartment’s selling points had been the promise of a “spectacular view of Elliot Bay.” It was more or less true. If he stood on the far leftside of the window and tilted his head slightly, he could see the bay. For the most part, he preferred to avoid getting a crick in his neck and settled for a reasonably pleasant view of Seattle. Tonight, in the chill hours after midnight, the city lights created a ghostly glow in the mist.
    Cradling the scotch against his chest, he looked out at the lights and wondered how many other people were out there like him, standing at their darkened windows, staring out into the darkness, putting off sleep for fear of what it might bring with it.
    Taking another swallow of Chivas, Matt held it in his mouth for a moment before letting it trickle slowly down his throat. It was ironic, really. He hadn’t been afraid of the dark when he was a child. He’d never imagined goblins in his