Page 66 of Too Old for This

Down by the vending machine, I pull the fire alarm.

Junior has been cooking for a little while already, enough to make him unrecognizable even if the fire department shows up right this second. But they won’t. The smoke detector in the room is broken, smashed with the hammer. I bet the batteries were dead anyway.

The parking lot is empty. Business has already shut down for the night. Even Danielle has gone home. Thank God. Hopefully, her evening was long and eventful and she never remembers the woman at the vending machine. Her nights must be filled with people more notable than me. I hope.

I glance over at the office. The light blinks outside, along with the arrow pointing to the door, but I can’t see who’s in there. Just as well. I’ve done the best I can to make Norma Dixon memorable.

I hit the button on Junior’s key fob. A big SUV lights up.

Of course he has a car I have to climb into.

So many adjustments to make, too. When I drive out of the parking lot, I hear fire engines in the distance.

Dawn is almost here, and the alarm is still blaring.

The Dew Drop comes alive as I drive away.

A bit of relief hits.

Twenty miles out of Baycliff, well beyond the town limits, I pull off the road and use Junior’s phone to search for a twenty-four-hour urgent care. The closest one in that direction is near Portland.

I swallow a couple of ibuprofen dry and get back on the road.

Two hours later, my arm has been x-rayed, and nothing is broken. It was just a hard bump against my forearm when Junior slammed the door into it. Misty, the nurse practitioner, is the nervous type. She flutters around, checking and rechecking my heartbeat and blood pressure.

“Let’s get you rehydrated,” she says.

Misty leads me to a lounge chair. This is an upscale urgent care in an expensive neighborhood outside of Portland. The kind with extras, like real leather chairs and vitamin infusions. Misty insists I get one of those, too.

I admit, there are a few good things about being old. Everyone at the urgent care goes above and beyond. They don’t want to deal with the paperwork if someone dies on-site.

If I were younger, I wouldn’t be here at all.

My arm wouldn’t have stopped me. But I’m in no rush.

I’m content to sit and rest, get a vitamin infusion, and recharge before the long drive.

It gives me plenty of time to prepare myself for Burke.

He’s different now. Sneakier. More strategic.

Over the past few decades, he stopped playing checkers and learned how to play chess.

“How are you feeling now?” Misty asks.

“Much better.”

“Glad to hear it. These should help for today and tomorrow. If the pain continues, check in with your doctor.” She hands me four doses of prescription-strength ibuprofen. That’ll work.

At the register, I give them a fake name, tell them I’m uninsured, and pay in cash. Nobody asks any questions.

My next stop is to buy a new phone charger. I had been prepared for a showdown at the Dew Drop, assuming Burke was the one who would come see me, but now it’s going to happen in Spokane. My first time back since the day Archie and I left, and I’m in no rush to get there before dark.

In the afternoon, I stop for a late lunch at a roadside restaurant. And I have to check the phones, starting with Norma’s. One text is waiting on her Shelter app.

Burke: Got delayed. Will let you know when I’m leaving .

Clever. He is establishing that he is not in Baycliff and never left the state of Washington. But he did send his son down to fix everything.

On Junior’s phone, a different text is waiting.

Burke: How’s your trip going?

Not well, Dad. Not well at all.

Junior: Not bad. Leaving soon. Talk later .

Burke: Sounds good .

I motion to the waitress for my check. A few more hours to go.

—

Technology does make a few things easier. Years ago, I had to follow Burke’s wife around to figure out where he lived, because his address wasn’t listed. I never did anything to him, but I knew where to find him if I had to.

Today, all I have to do is look him up online. He lives in the same place. It’s like he never moved on from anything. Not his house and not me.

I arrive a little early and drive through the neighborhood. Burke’s house has that run-down, lived-in look. Not quite shabby but far from updated. An old sedan sits in the driveway. Looks like something a detective would choose to drive—a big and comfortable car, in case he’s needed for a stakeout.

I send a message to Burke.

Junior: Stopped for dinner. Be home in another hour or so .

Burke: Sounds good .

My personal phone is back at home, taped to my kitchen counter, but I call from my prepaid and check the voicemail. Nothing except a message from Delia about showing the house again. Since I have extra time, I listen to Archie’s latest message again.

I do believe he’s sorry. And I believe he wasn’t trying to spy on me.

For God’s sake, I’m old. How exciting could my life be?

Archie was just trying to be a good son, the same way Junior was to Burke.

But they were both so misguided. How strange the one thing Burke and I have in common is our children.

I put my prepaid back in my bag. Time to finish this.

The porch light is on at Burke’s house. I park across the street and down a couple of houses.

Close enough to make it look like Junior has come to visit his father, but far enough away that Burke won’t hear the car.

I don’t want Burke to see me coming. He doesn’t think anyone is showing up for another hour.

That means I have to walk between two houses and around his neighbor’s fence to reach Burke’s backyard. He doesn’t live in an expensive neighborhood, so no one here has motion-sensor lights that click on. It’s dark and quiet, and that’s a good thing for me.

But it also makes me nervous, being alone like this. I feel exposed. Vulnerable. I would be so easy to attack right now. And I wouldn’t stand a chance.

With every step, I look behind me.

I make it to the back of his house. The yard hasn’t been tended to in a while; there are more weeds than grass. A crack runs through the middle of the concrete patio. The sliding glass door has seen better days. It sticks when I pull on it.

But when I yank, the door opens. I step into a dark kitchen. For a moment, I stand still to let my eyes adjust. And I listen.

Nothing. No creaks or pops or even a break in the air.

His house is old. There’s no open floor plan, and every room has its own door.

The only light comes from the other end of the hall.

I tiptoe toward it, keeping my hand gripped around my new knife.

The hammer is back in my waistband, the steel cold against my side.

The door at the end is open. I can see the blue glow from a computer screen. Burke’s office.

My heart jumps. I feel a tingle in my spine.

This isn’t right.

Burke is supposed to be waiting for his son to arrive, not sitting in a dark house. And why would an ex-detective leave his back door unlocked?

He wouldn’t. Not unless it was a trap.

I take a step back, placing my foot down slow and silent.

Before I can turn, a gun cocks.

“Drop the knife, Lorena.”