The Stolen - Jason Pinter [3]
Then Evelyn leaned forward. Sniffed. Scrunched up
her nose.
The Stolen
15
"My God, Parker, you stink worse than O'Donnell the
morning after St. Patrick's Day. Your pieces might be
clean, but you reek like my nephew's diaper. Go home and
shower, seriously, otherwise I'll tell Wallace he has a
rodent infestation in the vicinity of your desk."
"I'm not that bad, am I?" I raised an arm, took a whiff,
and immediately nodded in agreement. "I'm on my way."
When Evelyn left, I took the duffel out from beneath
my desk, opened it. Sniffed. Closed it right up. Maybe it
was best to just burn this load.
I grabbed the bag, left the office, took a cab to my
apartment. I blew in the door, took a three-minute shower,
and seven minutes after that I was wearing a fresh outfit
with a spare packed away. Another cab brought me back
to Rockefeller, where I strode into the office with a sense
of pride that I knew was well undeserved. I waved to the
night security team. They were too busy watching a ball
game to wave back.
The newsroom was nearly empty. A quiet newsroom
felt like an unnatural beast, but I'd grown used to it.
I opened my drawer, pulled out a down pillow I'd
bought myself as a present. I took a fresh pillow cover
from the bag, pulled it on. Buried somewhere in those
drawers, beneath a mountain of papers, was a photo of
Amanda. I'd taken it at a concert at Jones Beach last
summer. It was raining. I was concerned the camera would
be ruined. Amanda told me not to worry, that if special
moments weren't worth some sort of risk, how special
could they be?
Without saying another word I snapped the photo. She
was right. The moment was worth far more than the risk.
Her brown hair was plastered to her cheeks, her neck.
Her tank top clinging to her rain-slick body like silk. Her
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Jason Pinter
eyes were closed, the music pouring through her. That
was my favorite photo of Amanda. It used to sit on my
desk. Now I couldn't even look at it, because it only made
me think of the night I ended the best thing in my life.
Then I did what I'd been doing every night for the past
four months. I placed the pillow on my desk, put my head
down, and slept.
1
"James, get your behind down here and finish your
greens!"
Shelly's voice boomed through the house, and even
though it took eight-year-old James Linwood only thirty
seconds to turn off his Xbox 360 and race down the stairs,
his younger sister, Tasha, was already sitting at the table,
eyeing him while munching loudly on a celery stalk. When
James sat down, Tasha, six years old but already a grandmaster at winning the game of sibling rivalry, stuck a
green, mush-filled tongue out at her brother, who was
more than happy to return the favor.
"That's enough, both of you. James, baby, I never
excused you from the table. You have to ask to be
excused." James looked at his mother and gave an exaggerated sigh, then picked up a single piece of lettuce. He
took a bite, grimacing as if it had been marinating in oyster
juice. "I don't know what you're looking at me for," Shelly
said. "Some people actually think vegetables taste good."
Tasha nodded along with her mother, opened wide and
shoved a whole stalk of celery in her mouth.
"Those people are stupid," James said, nibbling at the
lettuce.
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Jason Pinter
"No, if you knew what kind of vitamins and minerals
veggies had, you'd know those people are quite smart,"
Shelly said. "Did you know LeBron James eats a double
helping of carrots before every game?"
"Does not," James replied.
"Does too," said Shelly.
"Does too," said Tasha.
James gave his sister a cold glare. He tore off a piece
of lettuce and chewed it with vigor, letting several shreds
of green gristle fall onto the table.
Shelly watched her children eat, their eyes more concerned with her approval than their nutrition. The soft
jingle of a wind chime could be heard from the back porch,
as well as the noise of a television set blaring from the
house next door. Mrs.