Chapter 15: Ninety Trucks

Brooks got out of the pickup and left the door open.

A gray SUV pulled in behind it, and four men in work jackets climbed out and stood in a line.

None of them looked at me.

"Ros," Brooks said. "Honey. Come out of there."

Rosalind stayed beside me with her hand on the pocket where the photograph was.

"You're not well," he said, gently. "You were in a hospital bed yesterday. These men are here to take you home."

"Home," she said.

"And the boxes go back where they belong. Those are company records. You've got no right to hold them."

"The lease is in my name," Rosalind said. "You put it there."

"You're confused."

"I'm not confused. I'm pregnant." She took a step toward him. "I found the photograph, Brooks."

His face did not change.

But the handkerchief came out of his pocket, and he wiped his palm with it, one finger at a time.

"What photograph?"

"Of me asleep on my couch. October third."

The four men looked at each other.

"Boys, get the boxes," Brooks said.

The nearest man took a step.

I took out my phone, thumbed the first number in my favorites, and put it on speaker.

It rang once.

"Dispatch," said the voice from the yard.

"It's Ostrow," I said. "Route 33 Self Storage. Key the radio."

"On what channel?"

"All of them."

I heard a click on her end.

Then her voice came back through my phone, flat and carrying, and through every cab radio on the road.

"All units, all units. This is Dispatch. Mr. Ostrow needs you at Route 33 Self Storage. Anyone within ten miles, roll."

For about a minute there was nothing but wind.

Brooks smiled at the men. "He's bluffing. They're drivers. They have loads."

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