toe from tapping impatiently. “You heard from Ang—” He stopped himself, knowing I found it creepy when he called her Angel. “Elaine?”
“Not for a couple days. You?”
“She called last night,” he said, but he was scowling.
“What’d she say?” I wasn’t jealous. Just because I’d shared Mom’s homemade pudding with her in the fifth grade didn’t mean she had to call me every day. I was a big girl. Big enough to have multiple men trying to kill me.
“Not much.” He turned away. “Sounded tired.”
“Well, they’re shooting action scenes. I’m sure it’s exhausting with—”
“Do you think she met someone?” he asked, jerking toward me.
“What?”
I realized suddenly that he didn’t merely look nervous, he looked hunted—eyes bloodshot, hair standing on end. People were trying to kill me every time I turned a corner, but I was pretty sure I looked serene by comparison. Was that love?
“Angel.” He said the word like a prayer. “She’s met someone else, hasn’t she?”
I shook my head and stood up, pulling myself from my own sloppy quagmire and surprising myself with my own kindness. I mean, I’m not evil or anything, but sometimes it’s hard being nice to a guy who has repeatedly propositioned you while using fourteen derivatives of the word “babe.” That, however, was pre-Laney. Post-Laney, I could have stripped naked, danced the hula, and sang “A Bushel and a Peck” with a Hungarian accent. He wouldn’t have noticed. “She’ll be back in a few weeks. Once she gets home, things will return to normal.”
“You think so?” He blinked at me like a myopic puppy as I led him toward the reception area, but before I reached my door, the front bell rang.
“I’m back,” Mandy yodeled. It was something of a high point for us. She was only twenty-five minutes late from her lunch break.
“Absolutely, and until then we have to support her,” I told Solberg. And as I escorted him to the sidewalk, I wondered rather maniacally how to sabotage my best friend’s career and regain my secretary.
A t 7:12, two minutes after Mandy left for the night, I dialed the phone for the California State Prison. I was keyed up like a pendulum clock.
A recording answered, rambling on about career opportunities my frenetic mind refused to register, but finally I pressed 0 and a live person answered.
“Yes, hi,” I said, “I’d like to…” I cleared my throat, closed my eyes, and gave myself a little pep talk that went something like this: Do you want to be murdered by your garage? No, you don’t. Do you want to find out who tried to murder you by your garage? Yes, you do. “I’d like to talk to Dr. David Hawkins.”
“Dr. Hawkins?” The woman on the other end of the line sounded bored and maybe a little premenstrual. “Is he on staff here?”
“No. No. He’s a…he’s a murderer.” My hand was shaking a little.
There was a pause. “Who is this?” Definitely premenstrual, and maybe a little homicidal. “Is this a prank call?”
“No! No. He’s an inmate.”
“Oh.” She sounded dubious. A prank call would probably have been easier to deal with. “And you want to speak to him?”
No. Please, God, no. “Visit him,” I said, and cleared my throat. “I’d like to visit him.”
“Visitations are on Saturday and Sundays. Eight-thirty to three. Come to—”
“He tried to kill me,” I said. The statement was greeted with dead silence…no pun intended.
“What’s that?”
“I’m…umm, I’m the victim.” I don’t know why that made me feel guilty. But I’m not alone in this. Victims often take the blame.
“Oh.” Pause. “Well then, you’ll need to contact a facilitator. Hold on,” she said, and clicked me over.
In a minute a woman with a smooth Spanish accent answered. I explained the situation to her, and she explained the situation to me. California State Prison, Lancaster, did not allow victims to meet with their
“Not for a couple days. You?”
“She called last night,” he said, but he was scowling.
“What’d she say?” I wasn’t jealous. Just because I’d shared Mom’s homemade pudding with her in the fifth grade didn’t mean she had to call me every day. I was a big girl. Big enough to have multiple men trying to kill me.
“Not much.” He turned away. “Sounded tired.”
“Well, they’re shooting action scenes. I’m sure it’s exhausting with—”
“Do you think she met someone?” he asked, jerking toward me.
“What?”
I realized suddenly that he didn’t merely look nervous, he looked hunted—eyes bloodshot, hair standing on end. People were trying to kill me every time I turned a corner, but I was pretty sure I looked serene by comparison. Was that love?
“Angel.” He said the word like a prayer. “She’s met someone else, hasn’t she?”
I shook my head and stood up, pulling myself from my own sloppy quagmire and surprising myself with my own kindness. I mean, I’m not evil or anything, but sometimes it’s hard being nice to a guy who has repeatedly propositioned you while using fourteen derivatives of the word “babe.” That, however, was pre-Laney. Post-Laney, I could have stripped naked, danced the hula, and sang “A Bushel and a Peck” with a Hungarian accent. He wouldn’t have noticed. “She’ll be back in a few weeks. Once she gets home, things will return to normal.”
“You think so?” He blinked at me like a myopic puppy as I led him toward the reception area, but before I reached my door, the front bell rang.
“I’m back,” Mandy yodeled. It was something of a high point for us. She was only twenty-five minutes late from her lunch break.
“Absolutely, and until then we have to support her,” I told Solberg. And as I escorted him to the sidewalk, I wondered rather maniacally how to sabotage my best friend’s career and regain my secretary.
A t 7:12, two minutes after Mandy left for the night, I dialed the phone for the California State Prison. I was keyed up like a pendulum clock.
A recording answered, rambling on about career opportunities my frenetic mind refused to register, but finally I pressed 0 and a live person answered.
“Yes, hi,” I said, “I’d like to…” I cleared my throat, closed my eyes, and gave myself a little pep talk that went something like this: Do you want to be murdered by your garage? No, you don’t. Do you want to find out who tried to murder you by your garage? Yes, you do. “I’d like to talk to Dr. David Hawkins.”
“Dr. Hawkins?” The woman on the other end of the line sounded bored and maybe a little premenstrual. “Is he on staff here?”
“No. No. He’s a…he’s a murderer.” My hand was shaking a little.
There was a pause. “Who is this?” Definitely premenstrual, and maybe a little homicidal. “Is this a prank call?”
“No! No. He’s an inmate.”
“Oh.” She sounded dubious. A prank call would probably have been easier to deal with. “And you want to speak to him?”
No. Please, God, no. “Visit him,” I said, and cleared my throat. “I’d like to visit him.”
“Visitations are on Saturday and Sundays. Eight-thirty to three. Come to—”
“He tried to kill me,” I said. The statement was greeted with dead silence…no pun intended.
“What’s that?”
“I’m…umm, I’m the victim.” I don’t know why that made me feel guilty. But I’m not alone in this. Victims often take the blame.
“Oh.” Pause. “Well then, you’ll need to contact a facilitator. Hold on,” she said, and clicked me over.
In a minute a woman with a smooth Spanish accent answered. I explained the situation to her, and she explained the situation to me. California State Prison, Lancaster, did not allow victims to meet with their
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