Free Evening Bags and Executions by Dorothy Howell

storage, the closet served as overflow for my clothes, shoes, handbags, and accessories, along with exercise equipment, an old laptop, books, and the general mishmash of things that seem to collect in a closet.
    But now there was one additional item. A small, black duffel bag.
    Ty’s small, black duffel bag.
    I’d found it there on the floor wedged between my snow boots and my bowling ball when I’d come in here a few weeks ago looking for something. Then, like now, seeing it made me think of Ty, and made that spot in my belly hurt again.
    Several weeks ago Ty had been involved in a car accident—long story. He’d asked to move in here with me to recuperate, so his personal assistant had brought over some of his things. I figured Amber must have put this duffle in the closet and Ty hadn’t realized it was here when he gathered his things and moved out.
    I’d never really figured out what was up with Ty and that wreck he was in. The whole thing was weird. He’d cancelled his appointments on the spur of the moment one morning, ditched his totally hot Porsche for a rental, and driven north on the 14 freeway. What was even more weird was that he’d stopped at a convenience store, changed out of his suit into jeans and a polo shirt, and was headed for Palmdale when the accident happened.
    He’d told me he was going there to check out a location for a new Holt’s store, but I didn’t believe him.
    So, anyway, here I was with a duffel of Ty’s personal belongings sitting for weeks now in the bottom of the closet in my second bedroom. I hadn’t opened it—I hadn’t even touched it. I’m sure that all his stuff inside of it smelled like he did and, well, I didn’t want to make a return trip to breakup zombieland.
    It hit me then that maybe Ty had left it here on purpose.
    The thought zinged through me, bringing momentary joy to that achy spot in my belly that had Ty’s name on it.
    Maybe he thought that when I found the duffel bag I’d call him. Or maybe he intended to use it for cover so he could call me.
    And what about all that other stuff he’d left in my apartment—the grill, the TV, the freezer. Did he think I’d phone him and ask what he wanted me to do with them? He’d paid for them, after all. Was that his way of wanting to talk to me again, maybe discuss our relationship, apologize for screwing up my life by leaving, for hurting me, for breaking my heart, for exiling me to breakup zombieland?
    Or maybe he was really done with me, didn’t care what I did with the stuff he bought, and figured it was a small price to pay to be rid of me.
    Oh, crap.
    I tore out of my bedroom. I needed to talk to Marcie. If I called, I knew she’d rush over. She’d talk me down, make me feel better, as only a BFF could do.
    I hurried into my living room. Cody was slicing up the brown cardboard shipping containers with a box cutter. I grabbed my cell phone out of my purse and saw that I had a missed call.
    It was from Shuman.
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    My all time favorite drink—nonalcoholic, anyway—was a mocha frappuccino available at Starbucks. My all-time favorite Starbucks was located in a little shopping center a quick four-minute—yes, I timed it—drive from my apartment. That’s where I met Shuman.
    After he called, I’d shooed Cody out of my apartment, thrown on jeans and a sweatshirt, and driven to meet him. I parked and jumped out of my Honda, anxious to talk to him and get the latest on what was going on, but I didn’t see him. Then I spotted the only guy sitting at the outdoor café alone with a coffee and a mocha Frappuccino in front of him, and realized it was Shuman.
    I hardly recognized him.
    Detective Shuman was good looking, kind of tall, with brown hair and a boy-next-door smile. He didn’t need that smile much in his line of work, but I’d seen it a few times and it was killer.
    But tonight he looked