Georgia didn’t feel like cooking dinner that night. Her humiliation at being caught in the hospital still clung to her like a rain-soaked coat. She’d taken another risk, and it hadn’t panned out. She should have thought it out more carefully. Jimmy had been trying to tell her that for days now. It might not be illegal, but it was foolish to pretend she was someone she wasn’t. Now she had two strikes against her in that category: the social worker she’d impersonated during her first homicide case and playing a nurse today. One more, and she was toast. And that didn’t include the reporter she’d impersonated last week. The point was she was asking for trouble, and she could lose her license.
She drove down to her gym and went five rounds with the guy she’d worked out with last time. This time she got one round off him. That was progress. Self-loathing was a great motivator.
She stopped into the grocery store on her way home to buy an overpriced cooked chicken and side dishes. Both Vanna and Jimmy had a sweet tooth, but she was pissed off enough to consider skipping dessert. At the last minute, she spotted a cherry pie on sale and relented. Jimmy and Vanna weren’t to blame. Georgia needed to own it. Self-doubt pressed down on her like a lowering storm cloud. She was a second-rate PI. She took careless risks. Despite the sun-drenched afternoon, Georgia was in a black mood.
Back home she put the food away, then pored over her case notes. Nothing jumped out at her. The gamey smell of the cooked chicken called her—she’d skipped both breakfast and lunch. She sliced off a wing and wolfed it down. She rummaged around for some cookies and ate half a dozen Oreos before she realized they wouldn’t help her mood. She considered driving over to Mickey’s for a few drinks. But that wasn’t the answer either.
When she picked up Vanna and Charlie at JoBeth’s, Georgia struggled to be civil, but Vanna must have sensed her mood because she was subdued. No lively chatter about her day or Charlie’s latest achievement. Back home, Georgia didn’t know what to do with herself. Usually when she wasn’t working, she would find a project—painting a wall, decorating, and lately, cooking. But now she lay on her bed and stared out the window.
It hadn’t rained much in the past two weeks, and she suspected spiders spun more webs when it was dry. She didn’t know why and didn’t much care, but it had sprinkled last night, and today’s sun caught a spider web at the bottom corner of her window. Errant raindrops seemed to be glued to the angles of the web, and they sparkled in the sunlight. She watched for what seemed like hours, the quiet sound of the TV and Charlie’s coos a soft background.
She must have drifted off because the sound of Jimmy’s key in the lock roused her. Thirty minutes later, Georgia piled food on plates. They ate early, squeezing around the tiny table in Georgia’s kitchen, Charlie, in his high chair next to Vanna, banged his spoon. Usually, she thought it was charming. Tonight, it was irritating.
Afterwards, Georgia sliced and wrapped the leftover chicken for tomorrow’s lunch. She shoved mashed potatoes and peas into plastic containers and practically threw them into the refrigerator. She tossed silverware into the sink. The clatter it made was grimly satisfying.
Jimmy watched her. She hadn’t told him about her day and wasn’t sure she would. But he clearly knew something was up. “Hey, babe. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You seem out of sorts.”
She shrugged.
Vanna, who was feeding Charlie some of the cherry goop from the pie, took him and disappeared into their room.
“Did something happen?”
“No,” she lied.
He finished his pie and got up to take his plate to the sink. Georgia grabbed it from him, stacked it in the dishwasher, and threw the fork into the sink. Another metallic clank.
“What did you do today?” Jimmy asked.
“Stop interrogating me.”
“I’m not—”
“You must have something better to do.”
Jimmy cocked his head, looked at her, and went into the living room. He turned on the TV.
She wiped the table in silence. She hadn’t heard back from LeJeune. “It’s jealousy, isn’t it?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re jealous of my relationship with the FBI. I remember how you wanted to work for the FBI when you started out. Now I’m a FBI confidential informant. You want me to fail.”
Jimmy’s puzzled expression turned into a frown. “There are so many misconceptions in what you said I don’t know where to begin.”
“Really?” She grumbled.
“Think about who CIs are. They’re usually not the cream of society. They’re—”
“LeJeune promised he’d back me up.”
“Do you really believe he’ll have your back in a crisis? He’ll cover his own ass first. It would take him hours to assemble a team. Whatever crisis you were facing would be long over.”
Georgia’s lips thinned to a grim straight line. “You don’t know that.”
“Here’s what I do know. You’ve been putting yourself in risky—almost reckless — situations on this case. Nearly getting run over. Being surveilled by Mormon crackpots. Going into Jefferson Medical without an appointment. Hanging out in Michigan dive bars where you’re not welcome. Maybe it’s to impress the Bureau. Maybe not. I don’t know. But remember this. LeJeune is not dependable if you get into trouble.” He stood up. “What is it they say? He’ll let you twist in the wind? Look, we have to deal with the Mormon problem and this Eden woman. They could come after you again at any time. Given how violent Fundamentalist Mormons can be, how can LeJeune protect you?”
“We? Since when is it we, Kemosabe? This is my case. My problem.”
Jimmy planted his hands on his hips. “What has gotten into you?”
Georgia shook her head. She blew out a breath. “I don’t get you. First you tell me you’d love it if I stayed home. Then you acknowledge how miserable I’d be if I didn’t work. Make up your mind.”
“Georgia, where are—”
She’d had enough. She held up her palm to cut him off, stormed out of the living room, and slammed the door to the bedroom.
A piercing wail came from Vanna and the baby’s room. She’d woken Charlie up. She knew she should apologize right now. She’d been a bitch—mean and selfish. Practically hysterical. This wasn’t her. But after what she’d said, she couldn’t face him. Not right now.
When Georgia woke up the next morning, she was ready to apologize. But when she cracked her eyes open, Jimmy wasn’t at her side, his arm thrown across her like it usually was. Did he sleep on the couch? She rolled out of bed and went into the living room. No Jimmy. Not in the kitchen either. There wasn’t anywhere else to look. She sighed and made a pot of coffee. Once again, guilt washed over her. She was competitive. She wanted a “win” on the Covid case. Instead, she’d screwed up the case. And worse, her relationship with the man she loved.
Jimmy was right. The trouble with the Mormons might be a distraction, but it was a dangerous one. They had to resolve it. She’d been battered and bruised by the hit and run. But the next time they might kill her, and a dead PI wouldn’t have a win on any Covid case. Maybe Georgia should try to find the woman. Ask Jimmy to put out an APB. Eden didn’t have a car, as far as she knew, but what about the gray Honda? If Benson was still in Chicago, maybe Jimmy could pick him up. Pump him for information.
She sipped her coffee. The first thing she would do was tell Jimmy how sorry she was for last night. She called his cell, but either he didn’t have it on him or was so angry he wouldn’t take her call.
She drummed her fingers on the table. One, two, three, four. Four, three, two one. There must be something she could do. All she knew was that the woman had boarded a bus for Chicago. An idea occurred to her.