Free 4 Shot Off The Presses by Amanda M. Lee Page B

self-preservation instinct.”
    “Don’t we all.”
    “It’s the family way,” I agreed.
    My mom glanced between the two of us and shook her head dubiously. “I don’t understand the younger generation today.”
    “Join the club,” Mario said with a sly smile.
    “What?” My mom looked confused.
    “Stop toying with her, Mario,” I admonished him. “It won’t end well for either of us if you do.”
    “Duly noted.”
    “Where’s Eliot?”
    My mom can change a topic faster than a Kardashian can grab for unnecessary media attention.
    “He had other things to do,” I replied evasively. What? He could have other things to do.
    “Did you two break up?”
    “No.”
    “Are you sure? Maybe you’re broken up and you don’t know it?”
    “I think I would know it.”
    “How would you know?”
    “I think it would have come up between the time we got up this morning and the time I left for dinner.”
    Mario sucked in a breath as my mom’s favorite frown came out to play again. She used to warn me my face would freeze that way when I was a kid. She didn’t seem to think that little platitude applied to her, though. “That was ballsy,” Mario whispered under his breath.
    “It’s been a long day,” I conceded.
    I was surprised when I felt the booth dip down next to me as Eliot slipped into the seat next to me. He gave me a perfunctory kiss. “Sorry I’m late.”
    “I thought you had things to do,” my mom interjected.
    “What?” Eliot furrowed his brow.
    “Avery said you had things to do.”
    He glanced over at me curiously. “Why did you tell her that?”
    “Because you didn’t answer the phone when I called earlier.”
    “I was with a customer. You knew I was coming.”
    “I wasn’t actually sure,” I said carefully.
    “Why?” Eliot leaned back in the booth, shifting uncomfortably.
    “Yes, why?” My mom pressed. “Are you two fighting?”
    “We’re not fighting,” I shot back irritably.
    “Who’s fighting?”
    I had never been so happy to see Derrick enter a room – even if he did have Devon with him. “No one’s fighting,” I said quickly.
    My mom greeted Devon with a warm smile and a quick hug – a gesture that irked me for some reason. “You look wonderful,” my mom said happily. “See, Avery, this is how a reporter should dress for a day of work.”
    I glanced at Devon’s black pencil skirt and matching blazer and blew out a very ladylike raspberry. I felt Eliot shake with silent laughter next to me, slipping an arm around me as he did. The crisis – at least temporarily – seemed to have passed. Crisis probably isn’t the right word. It’s more like a feeling of dread more than anything else.
    “Well,” my mom pursed her lips. “I can see where this conversation is going.”
    I was relieved when she slipped into the booth behind the center table and started talking to my Uncle Tim about some news item she had read in the paper today. Everyone ordered and chattered away. Derrick didn’t seem to think Mario’s interpretive dance plan was as good of an idea as I did.
    “That sounds like a great big waste of money,” Derrick said.
    “I think it sounds fun,” I argued.
    “You would.”
    “You’re just jealous because you have no rhythm.”
    “You have rhythm?” Derrick didn’t look convinced.
    Not so much. I changed the subject. “So, are you on the new task force?”
    “What task force?”
    My mom has ears like a cat. A really twitchy and judgmental cat.
    “The task force for the freeway shootings,” I supplied.
    Derrick shot me a dirty look. “I am on the task force.”
    “Freeway shootings? Plural? I thought there was only one?”
    “Not anymore.”
    Derrick told my mom about the ties between the two shootings with a cool detachment that I think must be taught in cop school. She handled it well.
    “We’re all going to die!”
    “Who’s going to die?” My grandfather plopped down at the far end of the booth, a plate full of onions and chili in