Angels Fall

she dashed to the kitchen drawer, dragged it open. There, just where she'd put it, was her red marker. With trembling fingers, she pulled off the top, and saw the tip was dull and flattened.
    But it hadn't been. She'd bought it only a few days before from Mr. Drubber.
    With great care she replaced the top, laid the marker back in the drawer. Closed the drawer. Then she turned, keeping her back to the wall, and scanned the apartment.
    There was nothing out of place. She'd know. She'd know it a book had been moved an inch out of position. But everything was precisely how she'd left it that morning. When she'd locked the door behind her.
    Checked the lock twice. Maybe three times.
    She looked down at the map on the floor again. Had she done that? Sometime during the night, between the bad dreams and the shakes, had she gotten up and taken the marker out of" the drawer?
    Then why couldn't she reinemberr
    It didn't matter, she told herself, and walked back to pick up the map. She'd been upset, that was natural. She'd been very upset and she'd gotten the marker to be certain she didn't forget the exact spot where she'd seen the murder.
    It didn't make her crazy.
    She refolded the map. She'd buy a new one, she decided. She'd throw this one away—bury it in Joanie's trash—and buy a new one. It was only a map. Nothing to worry about.
    But when she heard footsteps on the stairs, she stuffed it hastily— guiltily—in her back pocket.
    The knock was brisk and, if she could interpret the sound of knuckles on wood—irritated. It made her certain it was Brody on the other side of the door.
    She took a moment to be sure she was calm enough, then walked to the door to unlock and open it.
    "You ready?"
    "I changed my mind. I'll go by myself."
    "Fine. Do that." But he nudged her back a step, then slammed the door behind him. "I don't know why I bother. I didn't drag Doc downstairs to take a look at you. Why the hell would I? It happens he comes in for lunch a few times a week—which, unless you're blind and stupid, you've seen for yourself by now. It also happens that if we happen to be in there at the same time, we sometimes sit down together. It's called being sociable. Happy now?"
    "No. Not especially."
    "Good because this is bound to get you going again anyway. Rick's made some inquiries—which would be his job, by my description of it—so word's getting around. Doc asked me it I knew anything about it. Whether I'd have told him or not was up for debate until you served the soup. Damn good soup, by the way. You maniac."
    "I was in a psych ward for three months. Being called a maniac doesn't hurt my feelings."
    "Maybe you should've given it a few more weeks."
    She opened her mouth, shut it. Then walked to the daybed, sat. And laughed. Kept laughing as she pulled the tie out of her hair so if fell free down her back. "Why is that comforting? Why the hell is that sort of rude, inappropriate response easier to hear than all the 'you poor things.' the 'there, there, it's all right nows.' Maybe I am a maniac. Maybe I am just out of my mind."
    "Maybe you should stop feeling sorry for yourself."
    "I thought I had. I guess not. Well-meaning people, people who care about me, lined up doctors or therapists every time I blinked."
    "I'm not well meaning. I don't love you."
    "I'll remember that next time." She set the tie on the little table by the daybed. "Are you still willing to take me out there?"
    "My days shot to hell anyway."
    "Okay then." She rose to retrieve her pack.
    He stood by the door and watched her check the contents. Zip the pack. Unzip it, check inside again. Unless he missed his guess, when she zipped it shut a second time, she struggled for a moment not to open it yet again.
    When he opened the door, she went out, locked it. Then simply stood for a moment staring at the door.
    "Go ahead. Check the lock. No point worrying and obsessing over it after we leave."
    "Thanks." She checked it, sent him a brief, apologetic look, then checked it again before she made herself start down the stairs.
    "It's an improvement," she told him. "It used to take me twenty minutes to get out of a room. And that was with a Xanax to take the edge off."
    "Better living through chemistry."
    "Not so much. Pills make me… off. More off than I might seem to be to you." Before she got into his car, she checked the backseat. "I didn't care about feeling otf for a while, but I'd rather just take the time to make sure about things than take a pill