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an Uma Thurman Pulp Fiction pageboy. Veronica was a natural blonde, so when she had roots, it sometimes looked like the dark hair was levitating over her head.  
    “I’m sorry. I suck. Catch me up. You had a party,” I said. Veronica loved to talk. At any given time, there were always fifteen different things annoying her, and while she complained loudly, she didn’t take any of it too seriously. We’d long ago made a pact that as old ladies, we would live together, drink on the lawn in bikinis to horrify the college boys.
    “Remember my downstairs neighbor?” she asked.  
    “The guy who sings show tunes?”
    “He moved out, so I threw the party to get to know the new neighbor a little better. Only problem is he’s kinda shy, so I had to go the extra mile.”
    “What extra mile?”
    “Invitations not sent via text.”
    “This guy must be seriously cute,” I said. Veronica tended to let the men come to her.
    “Oh, he is.” And she launched into a discussion of his attributes that had me laughing and cringing for the poor guy’s honor.  
    Even though I was paying attention, part of my mind had wandered to Corbin, of course. I needed answers. I deserved them.  
    And I was going to get them as soon as it was dark enough to sneak out.

    ~~~

    “Front door or back?” Rob asked as I zipped up my coat. He was sitting on the couch, still wearing his gym shorts and a faded robot-themed tee. “Back door,” he supplied when he noticed the bag at my feet.
    I nodded.
    He went into the kitchen and returned with two cherry freeze pops and handed me one.
    “What’s the occasion?”
    “I’m trying to pretend it’s already summer.” He pulled off the white wrapper. “Do I want to know where you’re going?”
    “Looking for Corbin.” Rob knew about Corbin, who and what he was. He also knew Corbin had disappeared. His advice had initially been to give it some time.  
    He frowned when I handed back the cherry freeze pop. “Be careful,” he said.  
    I nodded and headed out.  
    I blasted angry rock music and sang along to it as I drove, trying to hype myself up for what I might encounter in the mountain house. As I screamed along with an early U2 song, I realized I was secretly hoping Corbin wouldn’t be there.
    Apparently my totem animal was an ostrich, head stuck deep in the sand, ass in prime position to get screwed, and not in a fun way.
    Well, no more. For better or for worse, I would know something.  
    That didn’t stop me from driving under the speed limit as I neared the house. A lump formed in my throat as I passed the spot where I’d had the accident. Each mile was more difficult, and when it came time to make the final turn down Corbin’s long and meandering driveway, I hesitated.
    If he was watching, he already knew I was coming. He had a ten-minute lead due to all the surveillance. He might ignore me, leave me banging on the front door. But I didn’t think so. He would be so furious that he would have to react.
    The radio had been playing advertisements, but that old song, “500 Miles,” by The Proclaimers started playing. I wasn’t one to read signs into songs, but the theme of making a difficult journey did seem fitting.  
    On the other hand, I wasn’t a man, so technically, the lyrics already required some interpretation.  
    I turned up the volume and stepped on the accelerator. I could hear the rush of my blood in my ears, could feel it where my fingers strangled the steering wheel, where the backs of my thighs touched the seat.
    Unfortunately, the song didn’t last long enough, and the following song was, of course, “Die Another Day.” I knew it from one of the James Bond movies. And if I wanted guidance from that, it meant I needed to be turning around.
    My guardian angel sucked.
    When the house came into view, I saw the first floor was lit up. “Well,” I said aloud. “Guess we’re going to have it out.” Adrenaline was the only thing that got me out of the car and