The Divorcee Murder Club

Cuarenta Y Dos ~ 42

               We sit in awkward silence for the entire lunch as Augusta ignores us while reviewing event plans designed by Mindy. Perhaps she’s doing it to get under my skin. Then again, I doubt she gives a rat’s hemorrhoided ass about what I think. But as soon as we finish the last bite, we’re ushered out of the home faster than a hand swats a mosquito because Augusta has shit to do.

The door nearly bites our asses, but one thing is for sure, it feels good to be out of the mansion. We finally climb into Jackson’s truck with full bellies, and he roars the engine to life so we can get the hell back to our side of town. He steers us through the park while tugging on his collar, and it must be another anxious tick because the neck of his shirt is starting to stretch and hang loosely. 

“So that was Augusta, huh?” he clears his throat. “She’s… intense. I didn’t expect her to be so young.”

“Yeah. I’m not usually into women older than me, but I gotta admit that for a forty-five-year-old, she’s got it going on. Too bad she’d eat me for breakfast then floss with my bones.”

“Yet, you still talk back to her…” Jackson grips the steering wheel. “And while asking for her help to get Alma back. For fucks sake!”

“I know. I’m sorry. I gotta work on that.”

“I love you, man. I do, but I swear to God, if you jeopardize us getting Alma back, not only will it destroy our friendship, I will royally fuck you up—send your ass to the hospital.” 

“I know.”

“Do you?” He grips the steering wheel tighter. “You’re hot-headed, and it’s one thing if the consequences only affect you, but it’s quite another when it affects everyone else. This isn’t just revenge anymore. This is Alma’s life and the baby she might be carrying.”

Rubbing my head, I can feel the regret churning the half-digested duck in my stomach. Jackson is right. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“And now we gotta find out what happened with Richie, but I don't have time for this shit. Not when Gino has Alma and is doing God knows what! Have you even heard from Jocelyn?”

“No.”

“I don’t have a good feeling about this. Why did she take him and lie to her sister about it? Something doesn’t feel right.”

He accelerates the truck as we exit Golden Gate Park, and for the rest of the drive home, we remain silent. The city whips passed us, and the next thing I know, he's pulling up the curb of my apartment but keeps the engine running.

“I’ve gotta go to the police station,” he says. “They want me to give a statement again.”

“Again?”

“Yeah…” he rubs his jaw, and the scratch-scratch fills the truck's cabin. “Do you think I’m a suspect?”

“You weren’t even there. You were upstairs with me. Everyone saw you.”

“Yeah, but what if they think I was in on it? Why do they want me to give my statement again?”

“Maybe they need more details? When my stepdad Chuck died, they asked my mom and me all sorts of questions, and I remember having to go down to the station a few times. It’s normal procedure. You’ll be fine.” I pat his bicep. 

Jackson nods, blowing out a breath. “Yeah. You’re right.”

But I can tell my words haven’t alleviated his anxiety for shit. His fingers still grip the steering wheel, turning the knuckles on his brown fingers white.