Page 73 of Thick

“Think about that, would you?”

There was no way I would make it through an interview on a television show without losing my composure. One off-hand comment, rude bystander, or snide remark, and I’d be in a fist fight.

“I already have,” I said. “The answer’s no.”

She sighed. “I’ll call Freedman. Expect a counter.”

“Expect a no answer.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Is that all? I need to take a shower. It’s early on the West Coast.”

“I always forget,” she said. ‘Sorry, I was excited.”

“So, that’s it?”

“There’s one more thing.”

“What?”

“Write me that manuscript,” she said.

“I will.”

“Promises, promises.”

“Talk to you soon, Michelle.”

“Bye.”

I closed the phone, tossed it on the bed, and smiled. I’d somehow managed to achieve a long-standing goal in my writing.

Now I needed to accomplish one of my long-standing goals in life.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Bobbi

With his hand held at his side, Perry swung his keys by the chain that connected them to his belt. As I alternated glances between my Kindle and the blur of spinning metal, I wondered what the chances were of the key ring coming off the chain and slamming into the glass.

“Whatcha reading?” he asked.

I wondered why he spent so much time staring into the cellblock. The inmates were locked in their cells, and there was never anything to look at but closed cell doors, and a polished concrete floor.

I wondered if he was mentally preparing for one of the men to pull an Andy Dufresne, dig his way out of the cell, and make a break for the fence.

“A book,” I responded without looking up.

“One of his?”

“Depends on who he is, I suppose.”

“You know who I’m talking about.”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

He glanced at me. “Him.”