Free Tomorrow We Die by Shawn Grady

complaints. Shintao must have had a stack of them because it sounded like he was reading them off one by one, saying, ‘Letell. Letell. Jones. Letell.’ At first I didn’t realize that he was actually saying a name. I thought, with his accent, that he was saying ‘Let tell’ – like ‘Let’s find out the story.’ That’s why the name rang a bell after you mentioned it.”
    “What were the complaints about?”
    “That I couldn’t tell. I only overheard a few snippets of conversation before I didn’t have a reason to be there anymore. It wasn’t my business, and that kind of conversation was pretty much par for the course with those two. I don’t know. Maybe it’s not even the same guy as yours.”
    “Not too many Letells out there.”
    “Good point.”
    I would have to investigate more into it. But I didn’t want to give the impression that I’d come just to pump her for information. “So, your sister is getting married soon?”
    She bit her bottom lip and looked at the table. “Yes. I am really, really excited for her.” She leaned her head to the side and brought her eyes up. “Can I ask you a question?”
    “Of course.”
    “How do you feel about . . .”
    “About what?”
    “Ah, never mind. It was just a random thought. Whew, where did that come from? Look, see, there it goes. It’s out the window.” Her cheeks flushed.
    Now I had to know. “Well, if it flies back in here, it’s always welcome.”
    She shrugged her shoulders. “Thanks.” Her fingers caressed the mug, eyes searching me. “You believe in a leading – right, Jonathan?”
    “A what?”
    “Like when you have a leading to do something?”
    “I’m not sure I follow you.”
    “Is there anyone you trust so implicitly that you would follow them, even if you didn’t know exactly where they were leading you?”
    The last ounce of coffee in my cup had equalized with room temperature. “I don’t think I know anyone like that. Maybe my mother, when I was little. Well, my mother and God. When I think of her, I think of Him.”
    She studied me, looking into me.
    “Don’t get me wrong,” I added. “Not that I equate my mom with God. Just little things – like her old Bible and the scent of its thin gilded pages. The feel of the silky bookmark ribbon. It makes me think of her and Sunday school and fists pounding on each other singing ‘The wise man built his house upon the rock.’ ” I breathed in. “I don’t know. When you mentioned trust, that’s what came to mind.”
    She held my gaze, tranquility in her face. A cell phone chimed from her purse. “Sorry.” She pulled it out. “Oh, wow. I forgot it’s my night to make dinner for my parents.”
    “Oh, of course. I won’t keep you.” I turned in my chair.
    “Come with me.”
    I stopped. “I’m sorry?”
    “Come have dinner with us.”
    “You want me to see your parents?”
    She grinned. “Yeah.”
    “But it’s . . .” It’d been really long. “They probably won’t want to see me.”
    She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe.” She stowed her cell phone. “But let’s just say, I feel a leading.”

CHAPTER 12
    Tunes broadcasted from an iPod tucked in the center console of Naomi’s classic Volkswagen hatchback.
    Switchfoot, “Beautiful Letdown.”
    The thirty-five-year-old German auto rattled as we exited the freeway for Victorian Avenue in Sparks. A bulging fabric grocery sack sat on the floor of the rear, a bag of tortillas flopped over the edge.
    I rested my elbow on the door. “I can’t believe you still have this thing.”
    “It’s not a Thing .” She hit her turn blinker. “You should know the difference.”
    I smirked and ran my hand along the seat material. “New vinyl?”
    “Yeah. That and my dad rebuilt the motor a few years back.”
    Something old. Something new. I studied her. “Same, but different.”
    She looked in the rearview mirror. “You talking about the car now, or me?”
    “Hard to pinpoint. But