Nine

RICHARD

ASIDE FROM KATHARINE’S HESITANT INSTRUCTIONS, the drive was silent. The farther away we went from my neighborhood, the darker my mood turned. When we pulled up in front of a dilapidated house, I turned to Katharine.

“This is your house?”

She shook her head. “No. I rent an apartment in the house.”

I slammed the car into park, yanking off my seatbelt. “Show me.”

I followed her up the uneven path, double clicking the key fob. I hoped the tires were still attached to my car when I returned. In fact, I hoped the car would be there.

I didn’t try to hide my displeasure as I looked around at what I assumed was considered a studio apartment. I considered it a dump. A futon, an old chair, and a desk that also served as a table were the only pieces of furniture in the room. A short counter with a hot plate and a small refrigerator posed as a kitchen. There were a half dozen boxes piled by the wall. A wardrobe hanger held the dowdy suits and blouses Katharine wore.

I strode over to the on