“‘Now.’ ‘No,’ Eve said. ‘I’m not hurt, Whit. I’m okay.’ ‘No hospital,’ Gooch said. ‘At least for now.’ They headed back to Charlie Fulgham’s house, ten minutes away from the restaurant; back down lower Kirby, cutting through the quiet of the big old houses of West University Place, taking a winding route along tree-shaded roads with names like Tulane and Rutgers and Loyola. Gooch drove at the speed limit and came to a complete stop at every sign. West University Place police were notorious for t...icketing for the smallest traffic infraction. Eve lay on her back in the van. Whit pulled off his blue shirt, mopped her head free of blood. The wound in her scalp wasn’t too big, probably from flying glass, but had bled with the flooding tendency of head wounds. They hurried her inside, Gooch parking the van at the rear of Charlie Fulgham’s driveway, out of sight of the street. Charlie sat in his kitchen, drinking a beer and flipping through a copy of Texas Bar Journal, marking stories with a red pen, when they staggered in.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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