thirty-four waist, thirty-six inseam. If you’re getting jeans, Levi’s fit best. I prefer my shirts extra large, tall if you can get them. Otherwise, short-sleeved would be easiest.”
She stared at him, one eyebrow raised in disbelief.
“I prefer clothes that fit well.” He shrugged, not feeling particularly apologetic.
“I see. Anything else?”
“Yes.” A slow grin pulled up one side of his mouth. “Boxers.”
Soft color flooded up her neck, darkening her cheeks. Well, well. Now that was interesting.
“It’s going to take me a little while to gather everything together.” She crossed to the dresser, where a bottle of water and several plastic cups shared space with a battered television with rabbit-ear antennae. She turned on the TV, tuning it to the least static-filled station, and turned the volume to a reasonable level—loud enough to hear, not so loud that any possible neighbors would object.
“My assistant isn’t available to keep an eye on you while I’m gone. I can’t take any chances right now, so you’re going to have to take another sedative.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You really don’t have the option of whether or not to take it.” She pulled a small dopp kit from the top dresser drawer and opened it. “You can choose how. Either take it orally or I can give you a shot. My recommendation is go for the drink. I’ve never been very good with needles.”
“In that case, line ’em up, barkeep.” Orally also held the advantage of being able to regurgitate the sedative once she left.
She emptied two capsules into one of the glasses and filled it with water. So much for plan A. She handed the glass to him then stepped back and waited.
He eyed the mixture, sizing up the quantity of liquid. He could still do this—pretend to swallow, and once she left, spit it out. His system would probably absorb some of the sedative, but not enough to incapacitate him for long. He raised the glass in a mock salute and drained the contents.
“Mistah Cabrini, suh?” She was back to the southern accent. “You may as well go ahead and swallow for real. I won’t be leaving until the drug has taken effect.”
Ah, hell. He was beginning to hate that southern-belle act. He swallowed.
“Thank you. Now, why don’t you rest your weary head on that pillow and get comfortable. It won’t take but a few minutes for you to drift off.”
He stretched out on the mattress, tempted to fight the lethargy already beginning to weigh down his limbs, but knowing it would be futile. He folded both hands beneath his head, crossed his ankles and glared at her until he faded into oblivion.
Chapter 2
Angel tossed the bull’s-eye-spotted bags in the trunk of her car, glad to have that portion of her list out of the way. The credit gods had been merciful—most of the items she needed were on sale. Better still, these particular charges wouldn’t come due until well after she’d received payment for this job.
The car rattled as she slammed the trunk shut, and she gave the dented fender an affectionate pat as she rounded to the driver’s door. Old Rusty’s body had seen better days, but it served its purpose. Few would guess the dilapidated red shell hid a chassis-and-engine combo that could outrun just about anything on the road. The engine purred to life, and she pulled out of the parking lot.
It didn’t take long to reach her last stop, even with a detour through the drive-up ATM. The modest rambler, shaded by several old oak trees, sat back from the quiet street. Traffic cruising past Cedar Lake seldom came down these twisting streets, providing the illusion of seclusion in the middle of Minneapolis.
“Grampa Fred,” head of the Neighborhood Watch and honorary grandfather to every kid in a four-block radius, waved as she drove by his corner house. He provided the illusion of continuity and security.
The garage door opened with the touch of a button, and she backed into her space with practiced ease. She slipped through the connecting door into the kitchen and down the stairs to her basement office.
Shedding the wig and contact lenses, she transformed to her “normal” blue-eyed, sorta blond self before heading back to the kitchen. She crunched on baby carrots from the refrigerator as she sifted through the mail. Bills, junk mail, a couple of bank statements.
Not for the first time, she considered consolidating the money into one bank. But the mostly inactive savings account, inherited from her father, provided some emotional touchstone for her mother. That alone made the few extra pieces of paper a minor inconvenience.
“I thought I heard you come in.” Corie Anderson, her mother’s companion and caretaker, came around the corner from the dining room.
Angel turned and smiled. “Hi, Corie. How is she today?”
“Today was mostly a good day.”
“Mostly?”
“She spent much of her time reading a book.” Corie crossed to the refrigerator and pulled out a diet pop. “We watched a movie. Then Mr. Dexter stopped by. He left an envelope for you—it’s on the front hall table.”
“Did he visit with Mom?”
Corie nodded, but a frown shadowed her face.
“What?” Angel prompted.
“She’s just been very moody lately. Mostly sad.”
Angel looked out the window over the sink. The grass needed mowing again. Already. Had it been a week? Probably longer. She shook her head and pulled back from the momentary escape. “I have to go out of town for a few days. As soon as I finish packing, I’ll come in and see if I can get her to talk some.”
“I wonder if it’s her medication.”
“You think she’s having a bad reaction?”
“It’s not that so much as I don’t think this new stuff is as effective as the original prescription.”
“Dr. Brenna said it would take some time to transition, and for the new meds to reach optimum levels.” She pulled a bottle of spring water from the refrigerator. “Until then, we’re bound to see some symptoms of the depression and paranoia.”
Corie nodded. “I guess that makes sense. But I keep wondering if maybe you should get a second opinion? I know of another doctor….”
Angel sighed. “I don’t know. Between Dr. Sanders all of a sudden disappearing without a word, Mom’s files getting lost, finding a new doctor and now this new prescription…it’s been a lot of change. At least she seems to like Dr. Brenna.”
She exchanged a look with Corie. Her mother’s moods had taken a marked downturn nearly two months ago. The change had been difficult for all of them.
Angel held the cool water bottle to her chest, wishing it would soothe the ache building there. She wanted her father, wanted their little family whole. Except some bail jumper— She shook off that line of thought.
“Tell her I’ll be in in just a few minutes. It won’t take me long to pack.”
“Sure.”
Angel turned back to the window. “The lawn needs mowing. You better call a service and get it done. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone.”
“I’ll take care of it. You pay me enough to do more than sit around all day.”
Angel smiled. Since joining their little household two years ago, Corie had become indispensable. “Don’t sell yourself short. Having you is a godsend. I don’t know how we managed without you.”
“Then we saved each other.” Corie gave her a quick hug. “If you hadn’t exposed my ex for the rat he was, I’d probably be dead now. The best thing