A Field of Red by Greg Enslen Read Free Book Online Page A

had learned his name and which booth he liked. And he had settled into a standard breakfast order after sampling about every breakfast plate on the menu.
    Frank liked where he was sitting. The booth had nice view of the entire place and the door, and his back was to the wall. Situational awareness—it had been drummed into him at the Academy and was another old habit he couldn’t seem to shake— meant choosing the seat with the best view of the room.
    Frank just hoped he could go the whole meal without anyone talking to him. Frank had been told before that he was an introvert, but he didn’t buy it. He just hated people, sometimes, and needed to be left alone to recharge his batteries. His partners had all tried, unsuccessfully, to get him to go out after his shift for drinks, but he’d never been into socializing.
    His wife had hated that, too.
    Long before she’d left him, she’d bitch about them never going out. But then Laura had come along, and Trudy had found a new hobby that didn’t involve complaining to him about her life. He should have seen what was coming next. Now, looking back on it, he wondered why it had been a surprise at all.
    But so far, the best part of retirement was the quiet meals by himself: no one to entertain, or interrogate, or need to smile and nod while they blathered on and on, talking about whatever stupid thing had happened to them.
    Frank had the Dayton paper spread out on the table in front of him—he’d grabbed a free copy of the Dayton Daily News from Oscar at the hotel front desk—and was enjoying his OJ and coffee and a ham and cheese omelet. A cardiologist back in Alabama had said to back off the carbs, so he’d switched out the buttery hash browns for some fresh tomato slices.
    But one thing he wouldn’t give up was his eggs.
    Frank remembered his one and only trip to Paris. In the mornings, waking in one of those truly tiny European hotel rooms he’d been warned about, he’d craved any kind of protein for breakfast. But this being Paris and all, all he could find were dainty little croissants and chocolate-covered pastries. For all the decadence of the food in Paris, he’d have traded all of it for a nice omelet. There was no meat at any of the breakfasts, just pastries and breads, everything drizzled in chocolate.
    Trudy would’ve hated him for that. Of course, she never went on travel with him, on any of the occasions his work had taken him out of New Orleans. Maybe if he’d taken her with him, even once, things would have worked out better. But on the rare occasions they had taken trips together, it seemed the vacations were always more exhausting than they should have been.
    “More coffee?”
    He looked up. It was Gina, one of the waitresses, smiling at him. She had smoky eyes and wore too much makeup for his taste but seemed like a good sort.
    “Yup. Thanks.”
    She smiled and leaned over the table, topping off his cup of coffee and setting a few creamers down, all in one practiced motion. He reached for the coffee, and she rested a hand lightly on his elbow.
    “I just wanted to thank you, Mr. Harper,” she said quietly.
    Frank glanced up at her again and nodded.
    “No problem. Did you change the locks?”
    She nodded.
    “Yeah, and I put all his stuff out. Took pictures, too. Everything I put out by the driveway, like you said.”
    Frank nodded. “That’s good—he can’t say you have anything of his?”
    “No, no, everything left is mine,” she said. “It’s all from before we got married.” She was rubbing her arm as she spoke, probably the site of an old bruise inflicted by her “loving” husband. Frank wondered if she was even aware of rubbing her arm like that.
    “Good,” he said. “What kind of pictures?”
    “Pictures of the house and all my stuff,” she said. “Like you said.” She leaned in a little closer. “I also took those other pictures you talked about, the ones of me—my face, arms, legs. My sister took those,