"You can't have that," I said. "And besides, you already said we only owe you, what, $127?"
"Okay, so, like, this is a little more, but I also paid for my lunch all this week, and you usually help out with that, so you probably owe me more than $150, so you give me this and we'll call it even. These are nice. You just print these up?"
"I need that money," I said. "You can't have that."
"I'm going to the mall, Mom's already leaving to go back to work and she doesn't have any money, so why can't I have this? You always do this to me. You owe me money and then you find all these excuses not to give it to me and that's not fair." She was already folding the bills and sliding them into the front pocket of her jeans.
"You don't understand," I said. "I got that from the money machine today and need it tomorrow and -"
"What's that on your desk?" She had her head cocked at an angle, trying to peek under the instruction sheet.
"Nothing, just some stuff for my book," I said.
"Is that a purse? Did you get Mom a purse for her birthday?"
This was not good. "Fine," I said. "Take the money."
She spun on her heel. "See ya." She was out the door and I could hear her thick-soled shoes stomping toward the front door.
"Goodbye!" someone shouted. I thought it was Angie at first, then realized it was Sarah.
"Yeah!" I shouted. "Try to stay awake!"
"I'll drop Angie off at the mall!" Sarah shouted. "I'll take the Camry!"
"Okay!" I shouted back. If Sarah took the Toyota, I'd still be left with the Civic if I needed to take Paul someplace, pick Angie up at the mall later if she didn't have a ride back with one of her friends, or meander over to another crime scene.
What I really wanted to do was go nowhere, to hide out in this bunker of a study, even though I knew I wasn't safe here. I wasn't safe anywhere as long as this purse and its contents were in my possession. I should just get rid of it. Put it in a garbage bag, drive to the far side of town, and toss it in a Dumpster behind an industrial complex. Money and all. Get rid of everything.
Take the credit cards and license and anything else that had Stefanie Knight's name on it and chop them up, run them through the food processor, dump them in the sink and grind them up again in the garbage disposal. Take her house and car keys and drive downtown to the harbor district and throw them off the longest dock. I'd made a mistake, I'd done a stupid thing, but I hadn't killed anyone. I'd never intended to hurt anyone, and I didn't know, with any certainty, that I was in any way responsible for Stefanie Knight's death. Maybe whoever killed her did so for reasons totally unrelated to her losing a purse filled with $20,000.
Sure. And the bombing of Pearl Harbor had nothing to do with America going to war with Japan.
I weighed the risks of coming forward, of calling the police, of turning this purse over to them. I had a wife, two children, a house, a so-so writing career. Wouldn't doing the right thing - if it even was the right thing - put everything I'd worked for, our lives as we'd come to know them, in jeopardy? I couldn't do anything now to save Stefanie Knight, but I could pull myself together, start thinking rationally, and at least save myself and my family from untold horrors and embarrassment.
Get a grip.
I had a book to finish. It was time to focus, to put these last couple of hours aside. Isn't that what Clinton used to do? Hadn't I read about how the former President compartmentalized his problems? How he could meet with the lawyers about the Monica Lewinsky problem, discuss testimony he'd have to give before the Starr inquiry that could potentially see him removed from office, then get up and walk down the hall and give his full attention to a discussion of the Mideast situation?
Sure. That was me. Clintonesque.
I took another deep breath. I shoveled everything of Stefanie Knight's back into the purse, zipped it up, and put it back in the shoe bag. Maybe, with Angie gone to the mall, and Paul no doubt down in the basement with his friends playing video games, I would have a moment to start destroying evidence.
And maybe once I'd finished doing that, I could turn my attention to work.
Out of habit, I fired up the computer. Before I brought up the word-processing program where I stored the chapters of my novel, I thought I'd check and see whether I had any mail.
I clicked on the mailbox icon.
I had two messages. The first was from Tom Darling.
"Nd 2 tlk abt cvr art. Cll me tmrrw so we cn set up mtng wth art dpt."