Page 42 of The Allure of Ruins

“God,” he grumbled, walking to my bedroom.

“And your mom showed me how to make her yummy bread pudding.”

He mumbled something as I joined him in the bedroom.

“What did you say?”

“I said it must be nice for her to share that with you when my sister and my cousins have been begging for years.”

“Really?” How thoughtful of his mother to not only give me her recipe, but go through it, step-by-step, with me. I would have to send her a card and thank her again.

“Hurry up and pack before the nice FBI agents shoot us.”

The packing did not take long. Besides my clothes and all the things in my bathroom, there really wasn’t much. Even the agents were surprised by how little I possessed.

“Was this place furnished when you moved in?” one of the agents asked, leaning in and glancing around.

I nodded.

“Yeah, it looks like it.”

That wasn’t very nice.

“You have no plates or silverware of your own?” the other asked me.

“No. I never found anything I really liked.”

“Okay, can we go?” Colton said belligerently. “Being here always makes me sad.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” I scolded him.

“Yeah, but he’s right,” the first agent said.

I had lots of clothes on hangers because I had—probably—too many shoes, and they alone filled one suitcase. There were coats, jackets, and sweaters as well. It was nice when the agents offered to help schlep. I needed to reassess them being stuffy.

On the way to Colton’s apartment, I had to roll down the window in the back.

“He’s nauseous because he’s hungry,” Colton advised the agents.

“If you want, we can stop at Theory since it’s on the way to Bucktown and open late,” the first agent suggested. “The food is good, and we can check the scores.”

“Of what?” I asked.

“Anything,” he said.

“Fine,” I agreed. “But first, since we’re going to share a meal, what are your names?”

“I’m Beale, and he’s Diaz,” Beale said with a smile. “You’re all right, kid.”

“I’m twenty-eight,” I told him. “Not a kid at all.”

“You don’t strike me as twenty-eight, and besides, anyone younger than me is a kid.”

“That’s right,” Diaz concurred.

Theory was a sports bar, but that did not interest me in the least. Only my amazing Tuscan turkey sandwich that I ate with waffle fries and sweet-potato tots. Colton shook his head as I wiggled in my seat with happiness.

“At least he’s enjoying his food,” Diaz pointed out.