glass door and the emptiness on the other side. She leaned her forehead against the glass. Why hadnât she asked Colin where this white woman lived? Her legs felt like liquid. She had to prop herself against the doorjamb to keep from falling. What good was any of this? What did it matter who the white woman was or where she lived? Skip mattered.
She pushed herself off the prickly wood jamb and headed back to the car, feeling wobbly and disoriented in the dusk coming on, drifting across the parking lot like a dust storm. She pulled into the thin line of traffic on Federal and turned south onto Highway 789, driving past the warehouses, garages, and drive-through liquor stores swallowed in shadows.
Her thoughts were filled with Skip. Sunday evening at her apartment, so tall and forceful and handsome she had thought her heart might stop beating, standing in the middle of what passed for a living room in the day and the bedroom with the sofa bed pulled out at night, saying something about having to turn in early, a busy day tomorrow, something might come up. She remembered having a hard time following the words. She typed his memos and letters, prepared the legal documents and all those stupid reports. Everything. She didnât remember anything unusual that might have come up, except that his army buddy had been killed. Skip had brushed his lips against her cheek and said . . . What was it he had said? The last words he had spoken to her:
Remember the good times, little girl.
What had come up? A change in plans he hadnât thought to mention? An ex-girlfriend named Deborah Boynton back in the picture? Angela had never stopped wondering if Skip might be seeing
her.
She had tried to believe him when he told her it was over.
For a moment after he left, sheâd had to stop herself from running down the outside steps, banging behind her the carry-on she had taken to Jackson, racing the half block to where Skip usually left the car, and climbing into the passenger seat, Skip at the wheel, taking them away. What else could matter?
The lights of Lander twinkled ahead. She drove toward Main Street and turned right, the car heading toward her place on its own, like a horse returning to the barn. Then she passed her turn and kept going toward the white-brick, two-story building at the end of town. The last place Skip had been.
The building looked dark and deserted, a lone streetlamp flaring over a corner of the parking lot. She turned into the empty stretch of asphalt that melted into the shadows. It was when she pulled a U-turn to drive back into the street that she saw the light flickering in the office windows.
She slammed on the brakes, jumped out, and ran to the door, struggling to pull her keys from the inside pocket of her bag as she ran. She jammed the key into the lock, pushed the door open, and darted down the dark corridor for the office. âSkip!â
she shouted. âSkip. Skip. Skip.â
The key wedged itself into the lock, past the strip of yellow police tape, and she pounded on the door. Shouting, her own voice rising around her. The door swung open and she threw herself inside, barely aware of the dim emptiness engulfing her, the shadow of her own desk floating like a ghost against the light from the street that filtered past the window. Barely aware of the large, black force at the edge of her vision until it crashed against her, driving her into the hard surface of the floor. She could hear the crack of her ribs. She couldnât breathe, and the blackness enveloped her like a heavy blanket.
10
BLUE-UNIFORMED OFFICERS MILLED about the office. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed and blinked. Angela sat at her desk listening to the pounding in her head. No, she had told the officers, she did not need an ambulance. She had managed to pick herself off the floor to the noise of boots retreating in the corridor, the door still open. She had found her bag sprawled under the desk, dragged
She pushed herself off the prickly wood jamb and headed back to the car, feeling wobbly and disoriented in the dusk coming on, drifting across the parking lot like a dust storm. She pulled into the thin line of traffic on Federal and turned south onto Highway 789, driving past the warehouses, garages, and drive-through liquor stores swallowed in shadows.
Her thoughts were filled with Skip. Sunday evening at her apartment, so tall and forceful and handsome she had thought her heart might stop beating, standing in the middle of what passed for a living room in the day and the bedroom with the sofa bed pulled out at night, saying something about having to turn in early, a busy day tomorrow, something might come up. She remembered having a hard time following the words. She typed his memos and letters, prepared the legal documents and all those stupid reports. Everything. She didnât remember anything unusual that might have come up, except that his army buddy had been killed. Skip had brushed his lips against her cheek and said . . . What was it he had said? The last words he had spoken to her:
Remember the good times, little girl.
What had come up? A change in plans he hadnât thought to mention? An ex-girlfriend named Deborah Boynton back in the picture? Angela had never stopped wondering if Skip might be seeing
her.
She had tried to believe him when he told her it was over.
For a moment after he left, sheâd had to stop herself from running down the outside steps, banging behind her the carry-on she had taken to Jackson, racing the half block to where Skip usually left the car, and climbing into the passenger seat, Skip at the wheel, taking them away. What else could matter?
The lights of Lander twinkled ahead. She drove toward Main Street and turned right, the car heading toward her place on its own, like a horse returning to the barn. Then she passed her turn and kept going toward the white-brick, two-story building at the end of town. The last place Skip had been.
The building looked dark and deserted, a lone streetlamp flaring over a corner of the parking lot. She turned into the empty stretch of asphalt that melted into the shadows. It was when she pulled a U-turn to drive back into the street that she saw the light flickering in the office windows.
She slammed on the brakes, jumped out, and ran to the door, struggling to pull her keys from the inside pocket of her bag as she ran. She jammed the key into the lock, pushed the door open, and darted down the dark corridor for the office. âSkip!â
she shouted. âSkip. Skip. Skip.â
The key wedged itself into the lock, past the strip of yellow police tape, and she pounded on the door. Shouting, her own voice rising around her. The door swung open and she threw herself inside, barely aware of the dim emptiness engulfing her, the shadow of her own desk floating like a ghost against the light from the street that filtered past the window. Barely aware of the large, black force at the edge of her vision until it crashed against her, driving her into the hard surface of the floor. She could hear the crack of her ribs. She couldnât breathe, and the blackness enveloped her like a heavy blanket.
10
BLUE-UNIFORMED OFFICERS MILLED about the office. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed and blinked. Angela sat at her desk listening to the pounding in her head. No, she had told the officers, she did not need an ambulance. She had managed to pick herself off the floor to the noise of boots retreating in the corridor, the door still open. She had found her bag sprawled under the desk, dragged
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