thought he said "Miss," which was politically incorrect of him, but she still wasn't certain.
She didn't want to call. She didn't want to hear about Dexter's troubles, and she had no intention of bailing him out of anything, anyway. All she wanted to do was get off her feet and go to sleep. She thought of her mother, how Jeanette had taken him back time and again, how she was always there if he needed her. He had never been there for them , but Jeanette had never wavered in her devotion. Suddenly, Karen felt swamped by an exhaustion that had nothing to do with physical tiredness and everything to do with a lifetime of bitterness, of wariness, and these last lonely six months of grieving for her mother. She was tired of being dragged down by her father's desertion. It was done, and nothing she could do would change it. She didn't want to be one of those people who spent their entire lives whining about their past troubles, as if that excused them from responsible behavior in the present. She had loved her mother dearly, still loved her and would continue to grieve for her, but it was time to get on with life. Instead of letting the empty apartment depress her, she should get her things out of the boxes she had packed them in to move, and make a home here.
Maybe she would take more classes, get her master's degree in nursing. She might go into the critical care field. It was challenging but fascinating for those who could stand the pressure. She was calm during emergencies, able to think fast on her feet, both necessary characteristics in a good critical care nurse. She took a deep breath. For the first time since Jeanette's death, she felt in control of herself, of her life. She had to deal with Dexter, if only for her mother's sake, so she might as well make the call. Without giving herself any time perhaps to change her mind, she picked up the receiver and punched Detective Chastain's number.
Unconsciously, she held her breath, bracing herself to hear his voice. How silly of her, to let herself to be affected by a man's voice on the telephone, but recognizing the ridiculousness of her reaction didn't mitigate the strength of it.
The phone rang several times, but no one answered it. Surely detectives didn't keep bankers' hours, she thought.
She glanced at her wristwatch. Seven forty-five. "Idiot," she muttered under her breath, and hung up. Louisiana was in the central time zone, an hour behind Ohio. Detective Marc Chastain was definitely not in his office at six forty-five in the morning.
She couldn't stay awake until a reasonable time for him to be there. She couldn't stay vertical another five minutes. Dexter would have to wait.
But she would call. When she woke up this afternoon, she would call. That decision made, she stumbled into the bedroom. Fatigue made her clumsy as she undressed. Yawning again, she stretched out between the cool sheets and sighed with bliss, arching her aching feet and wriggling her toes. She tried to imagine how Detective Chastain looked. Voices almost never matched appearances; the detective was probably a pot-bellied good old boy, edging toward retirement, with a couple of grown kids. But he had a voice like dark honey, and it was with her as she drifted to sleep.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
The shrill ringing of the telephone jarred her awake. Confused, startled, Karen bolted upright in bed, then groaned as she realized she had forgotten to turn off the ringer before she went to sleep. The digital clock taunted her with big red numerals: nine-thirty.
She grabbed the receiver just to silence the obnoxious noise. "Hello," she said, her voice foggy with sleep.
"Miss Whitlaw?"
That voice. Just two words, but recognition tingled down her spine. She cleared her throat. "Yes."
"This is Detective Chastain, New Orleans Police Department. I left a message for you yesterday concerning your father."
"Yes." She started to say she had intended to
She didn't want to call. She didn't want to hear about Dexter's troubles, and she had no intention of bailing him out of anything, anyway. All she wanted to do was get off her feet and go to sleep. She thought of her mother, how Jeanette had taken him back time and again, how she was always there if he needed her. He had never been there for them , but Jeanette had never wavered in her devotion. Suddenly, Karen felt swamped by an exhaustion that had nothing to do with physical tiredness and everything to do with a lifetime of bitterness, of wariness, and these last lonely six months of grieving for her mother. She was tired of being dragged down by her father's desertion. It was done, and nothing she could do would change it. She didn't want to be one of those people who spent their entire lives whining about their past troubles, as if that excused them from responsible behavior in the present. She had loved her mother dearly, still loved her and would continue to grieve for her, but it was time to get on with life. Instead of letting the empty apartment depress her, she should get her things out of the boxes she had packed them in to move, and make a home here.
Maybe she would take more classes, get her master's degree in nursing. She might go into the critical care field. It was challenging but fascinating for those who could stand the pressure. She was calm during emergencies, able to think fast on her feet, both necessary characteristics in a good critical care nurse. She took a deep breath. For the first time since Jeanette's death, she felt in control of herself, of her life. She had to deal with Dexter, if only for her mother's sake, so she might as well make the call. Without giving herself any time perhaps to change her mind, she picked up the receiver and punched Detective Chastain's number.
Unconsciously, she held her breath, bracing herself to hear his voice. How silly of her, to let herself to be affected by a man's voice on the telephone, but recognizing the ridiculousness of her reaction didn't mitigate the strength of it.
The phone rang several times, but no one answered it. Surely detectives didn't keep bankers' hours, she thought.
She glanced at her wristwatch. Seven forty-five. "Idiot," she muttered under her breath, and hung up. Louisiana was in the central time zone, an hour behind Ohio. Detective Marc Chastain was definitely not in his office at six forty-five in the morning.
She couldn't stay awake until a reasonable time for him to be there. She couldn't stay vertical another five minutes. Dexter would have to wait.
But she would call. When she woke up this afternoon, she would call. That decision made, she stumbled into the bedroom. Fatigue made her clumsy as she undressed. Yawning again, she stretched out between the cool sheets and sighed with bliss, arching her aching feet and wriggling her toes. She tried to imagine how Detective Chastain looked. Voices almost never matched appearances; the detective was probably a pot-bellied good old boy, edging toward retirement, with a couple of grown kids. But he had a voice like dark honey, and it was with her as she drifted to sleep.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
The shrill ringing of the telephone jarred her awake. Confused, startled, Karen bolted upright in bed, then groaned as she realized she had forgotten to turn off the ringer before she went to sleep. The digital clock taunted her with big red numerals: nine-thirty.
She grabbed the receiver just to silence the obnoxious noise. "Hello," she said, her voice foggy with sleep.
"Miss Whitlaw?"
That voice. Just two words, but recognition tingled down her spine. She cleared her throat. "Yes."
"This is Detective Chastain, New Orleans Police Department. I left a message for you yesterday concerning your father."
"Yes." She started to say she had intended to
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