CHAPTER NINEThe two-lane road to Linda’s house in Marlboro Hills dipped and curved through the trees, their tops bright with morning sunlight. Cool, fresh air blasted through my open windows. The breeze was filled with the smell of new growth, the kind of smell you can’t buy in an aerosol can. This helped kick me into a higher gear; this, along with a chocolate doughnut, a travel mug full of hot, black coffee, and my old tape deck playing Liz Phair full blast.
“This is the forest primeval,” I muttered aloud to no one. Who the hell said that, anyway? Emerson? Thoreau? Whoever it was probably wouldn’t have appreciated their sylvan woods being disturbed by the unchecked roar of my Mustang’s bum muffler.
My car is a piece of crap, but it works. It’s old, cranky, and Welch’s grape purple, but
