The Homewreckers(103)

Mo’s eyes traveled from Hattie’s disheveled clothes to her crimson face. “Uh-huh.”

“What are you, her chaperone?” Trae looked over at Hattie. “I don’t need this shit. I’m heading to town. See you in the morning.”

As he passed Mo on the way out the front door, he added softly, “Fuck you.”



* * *



Hattie sagged a little against the wall. “I need to get home too,” she said, avoiding Mo’s questioning gaze, which settled on the pizza box and empty champagne bottle.

“Are you okay to drive?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said. “I’m fine.” She looked around the room. “I just need to find my keys and my phone. And my dog.”

“Ribsy? You didn’t bring him to work today, did you?”

“Ohhh. Right. I gave Ribsy the day off. Lucky dog.” She started to giggle, which turned into a hiccup. She walked somewhat unsteadily toward the kitchen and Mo followed her, switching on lights as he went.

“Here you are!” she said triumphantly, scooping her car keys and phone from the counter, then promptly dropping them onto the floor. “Whoops!”

Mo walked out to the back porch and found his Moleskine precisely where he remembered having seen it last. He tucked it into the pocket of his jeans.

“Hey,” he said, touching Hattie’s arm. “I think you should let me give you a ride home. It’s late, and I get the impression you’ve maybe had a little too much champagne.”

“Noooo,” she started, and then sighed. “Okay. You’re right.”



* * *



He pulled alongside the cop, who was standing outside his cruiser, sipping from a foam cup.

“Thanks, Officer,” he said. “The house is locked up tight, and nobody else should need to go back there tonight.”

The cop nodded and gave him a thumbs-up sign.

Hattie sat in the passenger seat, looking straight ahead.

“I’m a grown woman, you know,” she said abruptly. “What Trae and I do with our personal lives is none of your business.”

“You were screaming bloody murder,” he protested. “What was I supposed to think? The house was dark, I saw your truck parked outside. I thought someone was trying to maim you. Excuse me for being concerned for your safety.”

“At first. And then you jumped to conclusions and got all weird,” Hattie said. “Admit it. You hate the idea of me being with Trae.”

Mo gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles cracked. “It is none of my business,” he said finally. “I have no opinion whatsoever about your private life.”

“Good,” she said, yawning. “Glad we got that straight.”

Mo kept his eyes on the road, but after a few moments, he glanced over to see that Hattie’s chin was resting on her chest. She was asleep, softly snoring.



* * *



Luckily, he remembered how to get to her house in Thunderbolt. He parked in the driveway, then walked around to the passenger side and tapped her on the shoulder. “Hattie. Wake up. You’re home.”

Her eyelashes fluttered open. She looked around and yawned. “Huh?”

“Give me your keys.”

She handed them over and Mo took her arm and helped her out of the car.

“I can manage,” she said, scowling and jerking her arm away. “I’m fine now.”

“Well, I’m gonna walk you to your door, because that’s what good guys do,” Mo said.

“Fine.” She took one step and stumbled on a crack in the concrete sidewalk. He caught her before she could fall.

“Just how much champagne did you have?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’m not drunk.” She yawned again. “Just so, so tired. Long day.”

When they reached her front door they could hear frantic barking from inside.

“Ribsy!” Hattie exclaimed. “Oh my God. The poor guy.”

Mo unlocked the door and she stepped inside. The dog jumped on Hattie, nearly knocking her over, barking and wagging his tail and licking her face.

“Ribsy. Oh honey, I’m so sorry.” She sank to the floor and gathered him into her arms. “Did you think I ran away from home and abandoned you?”

He ran circles around her, barking, and then stopping to lick her face.

Mo looked around the darkened living room. “Has he been inside all day?”

“No! There’s a doggie door. But he gets separation anxiety. Plus, he wants his dinner.”

“Where do you keep the dog food?” Mo asked. “I’ll feed him.” He walked into the kitchen and looked around. A plastic mat near the back door held Ribsy’s water and empty food bowl, and on the floor nearby, a ripped-open bag of dog food. Bits of kibble were scattered all over the floor.

“Looks like he found what he needed,” Mo muttered, picking up the now-empty bag. “Hey, Hattie. Where do you keep the broom?”

No answer. He walked into the living room and found Ribsy’s mistress asleep on the floor, with the dog curled up beside her.

“I should leave you right where you are,” he said. Instead, he leaned down and scooped her into his arms and deposited her on the nearby sofa. He went into the bathroom, wet a washcloth, and walked back into the living room.