Page 40 of A Wolf After My Own Heart
“Oh. Right. Yes, yes, that—sorry, m’dear, I’m still upset about Dev’s walkabout last night.”
“If she didn’t hurt Sally, she wasn’t gonna hurtme.” Dev’s declaration was muffled, possibly because his head was inside a cupboard. School had let out hours ago, and the werefox had been condemned to the gulag archipelago of chores: emptying and scrubbing out every cupboard in Mama Mac’s kitchen, then putting everything back neatly and in some semblance of order. The counters, kitchen table, and chairs were groaning beneath the weight of plates and spices and mismatched water bottles and lightbulbs and batteries and candles and matches and notebooks and scores of mechanical pencils that were out of lead. “Which was obvious,obvio,offensichtlich.”
“You come down now,” Mama Mac ordered as the boy emerged from the cupboard to blink down at her, then sneezed from the dust. Oz obligingly hooked a finger through one of Dev’s belt loops and lifted him to the floor. “Supper’s ready.”
“What, no plate?” Dev asked with grating wide-eyed innocence as she handed him a roast beef sandwich on a paper towel.
“Very funny. You just sit down and—you stand there and eat.” Despite her displeasure, Mama Mac had made Dev’s sandwich just the way he liked: thick slices of rare roast beef with swiss cheese, paper-thin slices of bermuda onion, heirloom tomatoes, dijon mustard, sea salt, and cracked pepper. In two bites, it was more than half gone. When Oz had wondered aloud if giving naughty kits their favorite foods was a disincentive, Mama had speared him with A Look and explained that nutrition and discipline were entirely unrelated.
He was instantly abashed; he, more than anyone, knew that Mama never punished by withholding food. To her, that wasn’t punishment; it was abuse.
And who knew better than he did? Besides his dead sister?
“So tell me, Oz. You find our girl yet?”
“You’re gonna have to narrow—”
“Sally!”
Her attitude was to be expected, despite the fact that she’d never met “our girl.” Mama was proprietary toward any cub in trouble. Thank God. “It’s getting messy,” he admitted. “Well. Messier.”
“Poor, poor cub,” Mama sighed, ignoring Oz’s pain.
“There’s also the nagging-yet-growing feeling that she’s getting help from somewhere.” His phone peeped at a pitch too high for Stable ears; he pulled it out and glared at the text. “Annnnnd Annette’s butting in again.”
“Invite her for dinner,” Mama Mac said promptly.
“Pass. Okay, her text says that somebody claiming to be Sally’s dad called yesterday, but no one got the message for hours because bureaucracy. Message reads, ‘I’m not dead, keep her safe until I get there, you drones.’” Oz looked up. “So Sally’s dad wasn’t a fan of IPA. Or isn’t a fan of IPA. Dammit! Why does everything about this case get progressively weirder? Did he get a message to Sally, too? I think he must have. Isn’t that why she ran again?”
“Are you thinking out loud or is this an actual conversation where you want our input?” From Dev, who’d finished his sandwich and was on his third glass of apple cider.
“Both. Maybe. I dunno.” Oz rubbed his eyes. “It’s 6:00 p.m. on a Tuesday. Why do I feel like it’s 2:00 a.m. on a Friday?”
“You need some rest. Stay the night. Or at least long enough for a nice nap.”
“Sure,” he sighed. “A nap will fix everything.”
“Never said it would, boy.” This while stabbing a finger in the general direction of Oz’s eyeballs. “But you get snappish when you’re tired. Eat something and go lie down,” she ordered.
“I will, but becauseIwant to.” He could hear himself whining and sighed. Mama had a point. Everything and everyone around him was pissing him off, and for no good reason. It was just as well Annette and David weren’t here; all they could do right now was get on each other’s nerves. Besides, maybe Lila would stop by. He’d torpedoed any chance at a relationship with the decoy lunch, but his libido was inconveniently ignoring that. “Thanks, Mama.” A true measure of his fatigue: her lumpy sectional sounded more appealing than his own digs, which weren’t lumpy at all.
He wasn’t lonely, exactly. He had a fine life, and he knew it. But sometimes he wanted to come back home andstayhome, even if only for an evening. He pondered the dichotomy while brushing his teeth and stripping to his skivvies. Mama always had spare toothbrushes on hand, and Oz kept a couple of changes of clothes at her place, too, for reasons he decided not to examine.
I guess that settles the Kama-Rupa question. Well, it doesn’t, but there’s no point in speculating any longer; Lila wants nothing to do with any of us with the possible exception of Sally and maybe Dev. Which is sensible for many, many reasons.
He assumed the sleeping position—facedown starfish—and yawned into the upholstery.I’ve had that condo for four years, but this crowded chaotic purple house is my home. It felt like that even before I met Lila. There’s probably some sort of parable or lesson there, but I’m too wiped to give a shhhhhhhhhhhhhh…
Chapter 17
Lila smelled it before she heard it, like last time. And froze, like last time. An icy hand snaked down her throat and seized her stomach while every hair on her arms came to attention and she thoughteverything, it’ll take everything.
She shot out of her office chair and darted to the closet to grab what she needed, went to her bedroom closet and did the same, then walked quickly
(easy…you’re no good to anyone if you brain yourself falling down the stairs)
and carefully to her kitchen, snatched the bucket of clean rags beneath the sink, soaked them, grabbed keys, left her home.
She saw it at once—Mama Mac’s silly purple house, belching smoke like it was getting paid. She managed to hit 911 and put them on speaker with one hand. “I’ve got a 10–70. There’s a house fire at 1218 Elinor Avenue in Lilydale, Saint Paul. I can see smoke and flames and there’s at least one child
