His face was impassive. “A change of underwear, socks, shaving kit. The rest doesn’t matter. I’m not going anywhere.”
He didn’t like the idea of her going through his duffle; she knew that because she wouldn’t like it either if she were in his position.
“If you’d rather I not prowl through your things, just say so.”
“I would have. I don’t care.” His tone was flat.
“Good enough.”
“There’s a weapon in there, though.”
“I’m not surprised. Are you licensed?” Even if he wasn’t, this was another of those instances, such as not booking Daina for public intoxication, where she’d use her own judgment rather than strictly follow the law.
“I am in Virginia.”
That, too, was good enough. Virginia and West Virginia had reciprocity laws regarding concealed carry permits. Then she had another thought. “Under which name?”
There was still no expression on his face. “Both.”
Man, she would sure like to know what organization he was with. Government for certain, but which of the myriad alphabet agencies? But going on the theory that in this case ignorance might be the best policy, she didn’t ask. He was covered in case Jesse did some investigating, and that was the important thing.
She pulled the duffle around so he could see what she was doing, then crouched beside it and unzipped it. Finding his shaving kit was easy, because it was on top. She set it aside. Under the shaving kit was a pistol case for a Glock 41, Gen4. It was heavy and in the way, so she pulled it out and set it aside too; likewise with the three boxes of ammo. “You think three is enough?” she asked, wondering exactly what he was worried about in Hamrickville.
“If I didn’t, I’d have more.”
His socks and underwear were neatly rolled. Socks, tee shirt, and boxer briefs were set aside. A quick feel through the duffle unearthed one pair of sweatpants, which she selected on the theory he’d be more comfortable in them than in either jeans or tactical pants, which constituted the rest of his pant selection. He had tee shirts, a few flannel shirts, and one faded red sweatshirt. He wouldn’t need anything that heavy unless he was going outside, something she didn’t think he’d be doing today. “Will this do?” she asked, indicating his selections. “Do you have any other shoes? Sneakers, maybe?”
“I think there’s a pair of sneakers in one of the side pockets.”
“Do you want them?”
“Yeah. Socks on a hardwood floor can be tricky.”
That was the truth. She noted the size of his sneakers—eleven and a half—and made a mental note to pick him up some socks with no-slip strips on the bottoms. He might sneer at them, but they’d be here if needed. And if he never wore them, she wouldn’t be out anything more than a couple of bucks.
She took the selections into the bathroom and got a couple of towels and a washcloth from the linen closet, laying those out for him too. There was shower gel in the shower, a non-slip pad in the bottom of the tub, and a rubber-backed bath mat for him to step onto. There was also a towel rack he could use to balance himself while stepping in and out of the tub, though she hoped he didn’t put a lot of weight on it or he and the rack would both go down.
By the time she was finished delivering and checking, he’d made his slow way to the bathroom. He moved carefully and he had his left arm kind of braced over his chest, but he’d made it and didn’t look as if he’d die any moment.
“Just yell if you’re too worn out to make it back to the sofa.” She kept her tone brisk and matter-of-fact. “I’ll be eating my oatmeal.”
“Thanks, but I’m good,” he said, and she figured he’d rather punch himself in the face than ask for help again.
She sat on one of the stools at the kitchen counter, eating her nuked oatmeal and sliced banana, but mostly sucking in another cup of coffee and listening to the sound of the shower. After a while the shower cut off, then another running water sound took its place; he was standing at the lavatory, shaving.
Bo had finished, rinsed her bowl and spoon and put them in the dishwasher, and was thinking about a third cup of coffee when he left the bathroom. Steam and dampness spilled out of the open door, though he’d had the ventilation fan running. His dark hair was wet and looked as if he’d combed it by running his fingers through it, but he was freshly shaved, and his expression drawn as if the exertion had sapped him. Both sweatpants and tee shirt hung on him. He slowly made his way back to the sofa and eased down.
“Do you want another cup of coffee?” she asked.
“No, thank you. Two was plenty.”
Two was probably the limit of what he needed to drink, too, considering what an effort it was to get to the bathroom and back. That didn’t need saying, though. She collected his cup and dealt with it, then said, “All right, I need to get moving. I’m going to town to stock up on groceries, then I have to be back in town by noon. Will you be all right here by yourself?”
He glanced up at her and the same thought shimmered between them: He had to be. He didn’t have a choice. “I’ll be fine.” Then he glanced at Tricks, who was being good and playing with her stuffed animals. “What about Princess?”
Bo’s mouth curved with amusement as she realized she’d never told him Tricks’s name. “Her name is Tricks. T-R-I-C-K-S.”
“I thought it was Princess. That’s what you called her yesterday.”
“Princess is her title, but her name is Tricks. Besides, I call her a lot of things. For the first year of her life she thought her name was No No You Little Shit.”