“Howie brought it, along with some of his aunt’s still-warm homemade fried pies and a spray can of spot remover. Karen opened the door barefoot, in the old T-shirt she’d slept in and a pair of thrown-on worn jeans. “Howie?” He stuck the fried pies under her nose like smelling salts. She took a whiff and a pie and stumbled groggily into the kitchen, following the smell emanating from her automatic coffeemaker. What time was it, anyway? Howie trailed after her into the tiny kitchen. “Like I was sa...ying, I have this friend at the Hotel Carlton flower shop. She says the police have been swarming all over the place since she got there this morning.” Sleepily, Karen took a bite of the palm-size, lightly frosted, still-warm apricot fried pie and chewed, moaning in pleasure. Better than chocolate. Better than sleep. Better than even— She stopped chewing. “What?” Howie handed her a napkin and pointed to a crumb on her chin. She wiped at it robotically as she watched him pull down a cup and fill it with coffee.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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