Page 112 of The Bone Code
Feel bad about Paps, not that he’ll notice I’m gone. (Like the $40 I snagged from his pants!)
Hope Lena turns out to be cool, not a salty noob.
OMG! We’ve been emailing and texting for almost a year. I’m sure she’s totally lit.
Backpack stuffed!
Thumb cocked!
I’ll take a cannibal cultist over this snotrag we’re dogging any old day.
YOLO!
HWB
My eyes flew to Vislosky’s. “Harmony wrote this the day France remembers her leaving.”
“Heading to Charleston.”
“To meet a kid named Lena.”
“Maybe a kid.”
I gestured that Vislosky had a valid point. “Lena could be Mama Gertie’s Canadian contact.”
The other murdered girl. Neither of us voiced the dreadful thought.
I riffled through the pages. Each one was filled with the same girlish scrawl.
“May I take this with me overnight?”
When I looked up, Vislosky seemed to be wrestling with it.
“I’ll sign it out,” I assured. “Dot all your bloody i’s.”
Vislosky’s desk phone rang. She ignored it.
“Be honest.” I waggled the little book. “With all this capno hysteria, will you have time to read this?”
“Fine.” Green eyes narrowing. “But—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.”
Anne was at the stove doing Joplin and stirring a large pot. Hearing my footsteps, she sang the next line into her spoon: “Windshield wipers slappin’ time…”
She extended the spoon-mic toward me: “I was holdin’ Bobby’s hand in mine…” I added.
In reasonable sync: “We sang every song that driver knew.”
We both laughed. My first in a long time.
I set my purse and a bag on the counter.
“The wanderer returns bearing food,” Anne said.
“Fried shrimp and oysters. I called ahead to the Long Island Café.”
“An excellent choice. Which my chowder will complement nicely.”
