Page 75 of Rage

She nods. “We were … pretty close by then. He was like … the best thing in my life at that point. I mean, everything else had pretty much gone to shit.”

I nod, let the words settle, keep moving. “Do you know Carter Brooks?”

“I met him a few times.”

“How well?”

Her eyes latch on to mine. “Well enough to know the guy’s a creep.”

“How so?”

“He got into it with Sammy over some frickin’ trees or something.” She tightens her mouth. “Brooks knew I was with Sammy, and he started treating me like shit.”

The landscaping contract dispute, I think. “How serious was the disagreement between Samuel and Brooks?”

“Early on they got along just fine. But after Sammy did that job and Brooks’s basement flooded, Brooks turned into a real asshole.”

“In what way?”

“Sammy and I were at the brewery one night. We were having a good time, had a couple of beers. Then out comes Brooks, all foaming at the mouth and looking for a fight. He accused Sammy of ripping him off. After a few minutes, Brooks came unglued and punched Sammy in the mouth.”

“Cops get called?” I ask.

She looks at me as if I’m a dimwit. “No one called the cops.”

“Did Brooks threaten Samuel?” Tomasetti asks.

She looks at him, her eyes flicking to the wall clock above him. “Threatened to sue.”

“How long ago did this happen?” I ask.

“Three months or so.”

“Did you continue to work there?”

“I quit,” she tells me. “Sammy said he had another job for me. A better one where I could make more money. So, I took it.”

“Where?” I ask.

“A club,” she says. “Don’t remember the name of it.”

Tomasetti sighs. “We know you were employed at The Cheetah Lounge.”

She sneers at him. “Look, I give zero fucks about whether or not you approve.”

I say her name firmly. “We’re not here to approve or disapprove.”

“Whatever.” She shakes her head. “I don’t expect you to understand how frickin’ impossible it is to leave the Amish. I had nothing. No money. No place to stay. No vehicle. I needed a job so I took it. You can take your judgment and shove it.”

“No one’s judging you,” I say.

“Right.” She flicks hair out of her face. “I made damn good money. I bought a car. Clothes. I was able to pay my rent.”

I think about what happened to me at The Cheetah Lounge. “Who did Samuel know at The Cheetah Lounge?”

“He didn’t say.”

She’s starting to shut down, so I give her a moment before shifting gears. “Wilma, did Samuel have any enemies you know of?”