Free A Bad Day for Sorry: A Crime Novel by Sophie Littlefield Page B

times I was seeing someone else,and besides, anyone can see Tucker’s going to grow up twice as big as Pitt. Ain’t no way they’re kin.”
    Stella felt a chill along her neck. Enraged boyfriend, denied not only his woman but the child he believes is his . . . men had certainly committed crimes for far less.
    “People see what they want to see, sometimes,” she said.
    Chrissy’s expression sharpened up. “Stella,” she said dubiously, “you ain’t actually thinking it was
Pitt
stole Tucker, are you?”
    “Well . . . you said he went missing right after Roy Dean was at your house so—”
    “But Pitt was there too. I mean, I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you about it, but Pitt was over visiting that morning, and when Tucker fell asleep in his playpen Pitt ’n me went back to my room for a spell . . . and when Roy Dean came to the door, Pitt hightailed it to the guest bedroom to hide out.”
    Stella bit back another scolding. Honestly, the girl tried her patience.
    “Is that it? Or is there anything else you need to tell me beside the fact that there was a
whole other person
present when Tucker disappeared?”
    “I
said
I was sorry,” Chrissy said.
    “Yeah, okay . . . just . . . But why’d Pitt need to hide, considering that you and Roy Dean were split up? You’re free to live your life any way you want now,” Stella said.
    “It’s just what we did a couple times back when Roy Dean was still living at the house and he came home unexpected. I guess Pitt was still in the habit.” Chrissy laid a hand over her heart. “Pitt’s just a little sweetie, but he ain’t the most ballsy man. He don’t like confrontation.”
    Stella didn’t bother to point out that desperation occasionally moved even un-ballsy men to act. “Was his car gone when you went outside looking for Tucker and Roy Dean?”
    “He didn’t have no car. He had a buddy drop ’im, and he was going to just walk back home. He’s in those apartments over by the office park.”
    “Don’t you think it’s strange,” Stella mused, “that he didn’t call you later that day?”
    “Well, I ain’t got a cell phone.”
    “Or stop by? Just to make sure you were okay?”
    “It wasn’t like that, Stella,” Chrissy said, crossly. “It was just casual.”
    It sounded to Stella like Pitt might not have considered it nearly as casual as Chrissy did.
    “I’ll go talk to Pitt,” Stella said.
    “Suit yourself,” Chrissy said. Her mood was darkening by the moment. “But it’s a waste of time, you ask me. It’s Roy Dean we got to find. Maybe we ought to see what the sheriff thinks. Get up a search party or something.”
    “That’s something to think about,” Stella said, trying to hide her exasperation.
    “But Stella . . . about them pictures. Can you do something?”
    “Well, are they in digital format? Did Pitt put them on his PC? Does either of you have an Internet connection?”
    “Ain’t neither of us even got a computer, Stella. And they was Polaroids—Pitt likes watchin ’em develop.”
    “Well then, I wouldn’t worry too much about them getting online. Listen, the pizza’s going to be here in a minute. Why don’t we eat—it’ll help us think clearly.”
    As if on cue Todd came bursting through the door, trailing a young man in a Papa Martino’s T-shirt who was carrying a suspiciously large thermal bag.
    “Hope you don’t mind,” Todd said. “I ordered an extra pizza. I was hungry. You need to pay him. Don’t forget the tip, okay?”
     
    By the time she got the kitchen cleaned up and Todd sent home and Chrissy settled into the guest room, Stella could sense the prickles of a second wind starting along her spine.
    Part of it was the whole bar thing, of course. Stella couldn’t help it: she loved bars, loved the way folks came in and shed the first three-quarters of their day and settled into the final stretch, some of them weary, some of them desperate, some on the make, some—occasionally—even