Damaged Goods

Chapter Three

As I drove home, I mulled over the odd behavior of Katie's sister. I understand why people want to be left alone, but looking up a number for me? To help find a missing person? Seriously?

I pushed aside any more thinking about Katie's sister and her 'tude. It was weird, but that was her problem, not mine. I sped south down New Hampshire Avenue, turned onto Randolph Road, then snaked through a series of backstreets toward a side road off Georgia Avenue in Wheaton, to my apartment-office.

I had managed to find a studio apartment I could barely afford at the Heights, a building rehabbed from a sixties-era mid-rise into a gleaming high-rise tower. It was a short walk to the Metro Red Line. Not to mention all sorts of fancy new stores and the arts district. All part of the suburban renewal effort of the past few decades.

I pulled into the garage and parked as close to the entrance as possible. I grabbed my notes as I left the car and walked up the two flights to my place. The apartment was just big enough to suit my needs. A short hall led past the bathroom on the right and opened into my living room-dining room-kitchen-office-bedroom.

The wall on the left held my flat-screen and a watercolor painting I had found at a yard sale. On the right, a bookshelf housed an array of worn paperbacks. A bluebird-colored futon sat in the middle of the floor with a small desk behind it. Beyond the utilitarian living room/office, a kitchenette was squeezed into one corner and a nook into the other with just enough room in between for my emerald green Formica-topped table and four matching chairs. From the window, I had a view of the beautiful "downtown" area. For privacy, I had curtained off the nook, which held a makeshift closet and single bed. Not that I hold parties or have many visitors. Or any visitors. But you never know.

A quick glance at my phone and its blinking red light, let me know there was a message waiting for me. I had a funny feeling that I knew who it was, but I checked it anyway.

"Erica." The soothing voice of Susan Findlay, my therapist. "You've missed two group sessions in a row without giving notice. Please call me when you get a chance."

At least it wasn't my mother. Thank God. She had called once before in an outlandish attempt to fix me up with some "bright young man" who worked for a bank. The fact that my parents and I had spoken maybe twice since my return from overseas fazed my mother not at all. I made it crystal clear that I had no interest in her bright young man.

Neither of my parents understood why I joined the Marines. Frankly, it was to escape the oppressive relationship my parents had with me and with each other. My father was one of those men who always wanted a son, and my achievements were never good enough for him. He also tended to boss my Mom around. Her responses were mostly passive-aggressive, but she never really stood up to him either on my behalf or her own.

Returning Susan's call could wait, but not too long, because I needed to attend at least 25 sessions to officially establish my sobriety to the state's satisfaction. First, I wanted to follow up on my big new case while my motivation was high. I erased the message.

I was about to boot up my computer when a black squirrel climbed onto the kitchenette's window sill. He was such a frequent visitor, I had installed a sliding window screen so I could feed the little guy.

"Hey, Rocky," I said to the squirrel. "Want a peanut?"

Rocky gazed at me through the window as I fetched the jar of shelled nuts. He waited patiently while I opened the window and handed him one. As he stuffed it in his mouth, I placed a small pile of nuts on the sill and closed the window. Rocky filled his mouth with nuts until his cheeks were huge and lumpy.