Page 137 of The Woman Left Behind

It was covered in red paint.

He pulled out his phone and opened up the camera app.

He hadn’t sprung for the system that sent motion sensor notifications. He didn’t have much to steal, he lived among the wildlife, and critters would constantly trip the sensors, and in being forced to contemplate it in that very moment, he’d been riding a lowkey ambivalence to his home since he lost Winnie.

In essence, he didn’t give much of a shit.

Like now.

He wasn’t upset at the damage.

He was annoyed with the message.

He scrolled through footage of when his camera was activated. He saw some racoon activity.

And then there he was.

Definitely a he.

Cheryl was out.

Dark clothes. A balaclava covering his face and hair. He kept his head down as he approached, then lifted a gloved hand, fingers spread over his face, which effectively hid any features the ski mask might expose, and then there was nothing but the nozzle of the spray can. Any footage after was just dark.

Willie Zowkower was tallish, maybe an inch or two shorter than Harry, and lean but muscular.

Roy Farrell was average height, now on the wrong side of middle age, and he carried quite a bit of extra weight.

Karl Abernathy was firm on the short side, stocky, and he used to be bulky with muscle.

Harry had always wondered if Abernathy’s short stature was one of the reasons he was such an asshole.

The man in the video had a hint of a gut, but his shoulders were broad, and he was at most, five six.

And Harry would recognize that puggish gait anywhere.

His phone vibrated in his hand as he replayed the video, and he saw it was a call from Trey.

Goddamn it.

They’d exchanged numbers the evening before. Trey and Mark had told him they’d had to dump the commissioner of their fantasy football league when, on the first game of the season, he changed his lineup illegally. They appointed a new commissioner but hadn’t found anyone to replace him. They invited Harry to tap in and take his picks.

Harry had never been in a fantasy football league, even if he was a football fan. This was because, as noted, the last eight years, he hadn’t done much of anything but his job. Doc had pulled him out of the prison he’d created for himself, but that only meant he hit up a few of the frequent parties Doc and Nadia threw.

Other than that, and recently finding Lillian, he hadn’t pushed it further.

Even knowing he didn’t have the time, he’d accepted the invitation, partly because he was going to be a part of her crew now, he liked these men, and this was as an official of an invitation of friendship as men could extend, partly because he was a fan of football, but also because it was high time he got a fucking life.

But he didn’t think Trey was calling because he was rabid for Harry to get in his picks.

He glanced at his father, stepped away and took the call.

“Hey, Trey,” he said.

“Hey, Harry. You got a second?”

No.

“Yeah.”

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