Three gray bubbles appeared onscreen—her sister writing her back that she shouldn’t be playing with fire, that Warren was a good man, and that the therapist would help them work it out.
Gotta run, Charmaine texted, shutting her phone and agreeing wholeheartedly. The only reason she reached out to Zig was the video tape. How could she not bring it to him? The last thing she wanted was to let this affect her and Warren.
Headed back toward the house, Charmaine made one last loop through her email, voice mail, and texts. Still no word from Zig, which made her start wondering if Zig was in a similar spot, sitting in his backyard, talking to his bees.
Just the thought of it annoyed her. They’d been divorced for over a decade; surely they weren’t this predictable. Though at the thought of that, a mental switch flipped.
Why was she waiting on Zig when she could figure this out herself?
With one hand, Charmaine swiped back to her texts. With the other, she put out her cigarette in a nearby terra-cotta planter—one that they’d bought to grow basil and other herbs, though the seeds were still inside, unplanted.
Helena, you up? she wrote to a number she hadn’t texted in years.
Everything OK? Helena Coplon—one of the den mothers of Maggie’s Girl Scout troop—quickly texted back.
Depends, Charmaine thought, hitting Helena’s phone number.
“Charmaine, you’re scaring me,” Helena said, picking up immediately. “I haven’t heard from you in . . . I can’t think of when,” she added, pronouncing the word when like win.
Pin/pen merger, Charmaine thought, the linguist’s term for when someone takes words ending with -en or -em and turns them into -in or -im—most often found in southern states. Out here in the Pennsylvania suburbs, Helena knew the value of sounding like everyone else—but sometimes, when your guard’s down, you can’t always hide your Texas roots.
“Sorry it’s so late. I’ll be quick,” Charmaine began. “Remember that modeling place in the shopping plaza—？”
“SuperStars. Of course. Dara loved it there,” Helena said, referring to her daughter.
Charmaine wasn’t surprised. Dara was a pretty girl, with the kind of mom who’d care about something as useless as headshots for a teenager.
“Why do you ask?” Helena added.
“I’m just wondering . . . can you send me Dara’s current phone number? Something came up I’d love to ask her about.”
35
“Ring it again,” the redhead insisted.
Seabass shot her a look. He’d already pushed it twice.
“Just ring it again,” Reagan called from the driver’s seat, where she was parked out front, car still running, just in case it got ugly fast. It was barely 8:00 the following morning. Early, even for the Reds, but Vess wanted this done fast.
Standing on Zig’s front porch, under a set of wind chimes, Seabass shoved his fat thumb against the doorbell. Tucked under his arm was the empty FedEx box they always kept in their trunk. If you’re holding a FedEx, no one looks twice at you. Most important, when the person inside sees it, they’ll open their door, making it far easier for Seabass to catch Zig off guard.
“Maybe he’s in the shower,” Reagan said, one hand on the camping saw in her pocket.
Seabass motioned to the empty driveway. He’s not in the shower. His car’s already gone.
She nodded, glancing down and scrolling through the M. L. Anderson auction site on her phone—looking at their newest listings of vintage guitars, plus 25 percent buyer’s fees. Markup like that is legitimate crime, she thought as Seabass craned his neck, trying to look through Zig’s window. If all was clear, he’d pick the lock. We’re clearly in the wrong business.