Cold Blood by Theresa Monsour Page A

Four duck hunters in camouflage loudly replaying the day’s shoot. A family celebrating Grandma’s birthday. Homemade cake in the middle of the table. Pointed hat on the old woman’s head.
    The room was dark, long, narrow and had a low ceiling. She figured she could order and eat dinner and he’d never notice her, but that would make her feel like she had something to hide. She contemplated standing up and walking over. Extending her hand. Joining him for dinner. Would he remember her? Sure he would, she told herself, and that’s why she was hanging back. He would remember that she turned him down at homecoming. That her boyfriend and his pals beat the hell out of him for talking to her. That she never offered an apology. Could he still be holding a grudge? Would it mean anything if she said she was sorry now? Pushing her even more than her guilt was her curiosity. What was he trying to do by reinventing himself? Was he after attention or something else? She had to know. She grabbed her purse and jacket, slid out of the booth, stood up and walked over.
    His back was turned to her. His posture when he was seated was as bad as when he was standing. As crooked as a comma. His black mop was worse than she remembered; she could see his scalp through the thin hair in back of his head. She walked to the other side of the table to face him. He was paging through a menu, bending over it like a man huddling over a campfire.
    â€œHello, Sweet.” She extended her hand.
    He glanced up. Ignored her hand. His eyes widened and then narrowed. In the span of a few seconds, she could see his expression go from recognition to surprise to hate. After all these years, he still blamed her. That made her sad and uncomfortable, but above all else, curious. What kind of man was Sweet Justice?
    â€œD . . . d . . . do we know each other, ma’am?” Trip asked. His gaze shifted back and forth between her face and the menu.
    He’s playing a game, she thought. She lowered her hand but flashed him her biggest smile. “Justice Trip. I can’t believe you’ve forgotten me. Paris Murphy. It’s been eighteen years, but I thought you’d still remember. St. Brice’s?”
    â€œHigh s . . . school. Sure.”
    His mouth was half open, as if he wanted to say something more to her. Murphy braced herself. Expected him to finally rip into her after years of stewing over the beating and her imagined role in it. Trip only stared. Not at her. Past her. She decided not to say anything about it. Let it be for now.
    â€œHow’ve you been, Sweet? You look good.”
    His eyes fell again. “So d . . . do you, Paris.”
    â€œI’m eating alone,” she said. “Mind if I join you?”
    â€œSuit yourself,” he said.
    Not an enthusiastic reception, but she’d take it. She draped her jacket over the back of a chair, set her purse on the floor at her feet and took a seat across from him. Despite his thinning hair, she still saw a trace of his high school handsomeness. Dark. Brooding. But that earlobe. Two gobs of flesh hanging down like teardrops from the side of his head. Why didn’t he have that fixed? Was it some kind of badge?
    The waitress came by. A skinny young woman with short hair the color of strawberry Jell-O and a silver stud in her nose. She handed Murphy a menu. “You changed tables.”
    â€œIs that okay?” Murphy asked.
    â€œWhatever. Separate checks?”
    Murphy was going to buy Trip dinner but decided against it. “Yeah. Separate.”
    â€œSomething to drink?”
    â€œGlass of red wine,” said Murphy. “House Merlot is fine.”
    The waitress to Trip: “What about you?”
    He was fingering the menu. “Whatever’s on t . . . tap.”
    â€œMiller? Bud? Pabst?”
    â€œMiller.”
    The waitress left to get the drinks. Murphy propped her right elbow on the