The next Monday, she went for her interview with Professional Investigations. She didn't ask me if I felt well enough to go along she just went by herself. Which made my bowels squirm in ways that resembled entry wounds. But I still tried not to understand.

Apparently I'd forgotten how to trust my intuition.

So I decided to cook a special meal to welcome her back. Also, presumably, to congratulate her. First I cleaned the apartment the way it should've been cleaned all along. I even took my life in my hands and cleaned her room, just to show that I never did actually learn anything from experience. Then I took over the kitchen.

But she didn't come back. She didn't call.

Eventually the first meal was ruined, so I made another one. I defrosted the fridge, which didn't need it, and scrubbed out the pantry, which did. After a couple of years, the sun gave up and let electricity take over, but I didn't turn on any lights. Or the TV. Or my optimism. Instead I stripped down my .45, took a fine brush and gun oil to all the parts, then put it back together so that the mechanism clacked with the surgical precision of a guillotine. Next I greased fresh rounds and nestled them in the magazine. Finally I oiled and polished my shoulder holster until the leather flexed like skin.

After that I sat alone in the dark. Outside, Garner shone like a nuclear blast, but I kept the blinds closed and contemplated my sins.

She didn't show up until after midnight. I heard her heels outside the door before she got her key into the lock, which gave me plenty of warning.

She came in without turning on any lights. Apparently she thought that she could avoid disturbing me. She may have been humming under her breath, but I couldn't be sure. My heart laid down a barrage so heavy that I didn't trust my ears.

We talked about it in the dark.

I kept h simple.

"Where were you?"

"I had my interview," she answered softly. I couldn't tell whether she was glaring at me or not. But every word had the force of a bullet in flight. They were so accurate that she might've been using tracers.

"Marshal showed me around. We had dinner. We talked.

"I didn't try to keep track of the time."

No, of course not. Why should she?

My next question sounded thick, labored congested by bandages and self-neglect.

"Did we get the job?"

Her voice might've come from anywhere in the room.

"Not we. I. I got the job. You're on your own."

A gulf opened at my feet. I sat still and hugged my chest so that I wouldn't fall into it.

She pushed it wider.

"We'll stay here until you're well enough to find work. Then I'll move somewhere else." No ground remained between us.

"Or you can move, if this rent's too high."

When I couldn't say anything, she went into her room and closed the door.

That was a good thing. I didn't really want her to hear me whimper like a beaten hound.

Two.

That night I didn't go to bed. For an hour or two, I paced. After that I sat up in one of the living room chairs, holding my .45 like an offering in the palms of both hands, and trying to think. Or I told myself I was trying to think. What I meant was that I didn't want to feel.

Sometime around 4 A.M. I pulled off my bandages and took a shower. That was probably safe enough a good three weeks had passed since I was shot but it felt like baring my soul.

By the time Ginny got up to start her first day working for Marshal I-can't-remember-the-last-time-I-had-that-much-fun Viviter, I.had myself dressed. As ready as I was likely to get. I'd shaved so hard that the follicles on my face still cringed. I'd eaten as much breakfast as I could stomach. And I'd put on my best which was also my only suit.

As soon as she took a look at me, her face turned belligerent. If I tried to foist myself off on her now, she'd probably give me a new gut wound to match Estobal's. I had other plans, however.

Wanting to prove I could do it, I faced her head-on.

"I still have about five hundred dollars in the bank." I sounded like I was chopping wood.

"But I don't have any cash, and I need wheels. I can't hunt for a job if I can't get around."

Hell, in a city like Garner I might not be able to reach an ATM without a car.

While she studied me the hostility drained out of her eyes. I'm sure she heard self-pity in my voice, but apparently she'd picked up determination as well. Frowning, she chewed on the inside of her cheek for a couple of heartbeats. Then she said carefully, "You aren't ready."

She sounded just a touch unsure of herself.

I liked that. Somewhere deep inside, I was angry enough to catch bullets in my teeth. The more I managed to keep her off balance, the better.

"That's my problem, not yours," I told her.

"Leave me some money. I'll pay you back."

She wanted to argue with me I knew the signs so she tried to get mad.

"Goddamn it, Mick " I stopped her there. I was fast when I needed to be, and I already had my hand in her face, with my index finger pointing rigid as a gun barrel between her eyes.

"Don't call me that. You fucking know better."

She took a deep breath. A struggle I couldn't identify conflicted her reactions. Now that she'd decided to walk out of my life, she may've felt guilty about it. Her grey eyes held a hint of violet, like a threat of bruises or thunder.

As she let that breath go, she said, "You're right, Brew. I know better."

Like flipping a switch, she turned businesslike and started fishing in her purse.

"I can only spare twenty bucks right now. But I'll leave you the company credit card." She'd kept Fistoulari Investigations alive on the assumption that we'd manage to get home someday.

"You can use it until you start getting paid. And I'll have more cash at the end of the day."

With her claw, she pointed two tens and a piece of familiar plastic in my direction.

I took them. What the hell else was I going to do?

She also gave me my antibiotics. I took them, too.