Roger rolled his hands on the steering wheel, processing what I told him about Eleanor’s career in corrections. The one she’d neglected to mention, even casually, in our conversation with her about her father’s kiddie prison legacy. “Wow. That took some…”
He trailed off.
“I think gumption is the non-testicle word you’re looking for,” I said, and glimpsed Roger’s smile in the now-intermittent streetlights. “Eleanor had to know we’d find out at some point and be pissed. So, was that more messing with our heads, or just doing the best she could, thinking on the fly?”
“No idea,” he admitted.
We stopped for dinner on the edge of town at a chain Italian place. Roger had never struck me as someone who liked kids (to be fair, he wasn’t fond of most adults, either), but he did a good job engagi
