Free Gone by Randy Wayne White

but the anger was draining out of her, along with her confidence. She sounded frail, exhausted. Embarrassed, too, because she added, “Lately, I have had a sort of cough, which I figured was because of the cigarettes. But I would have managed perfectly well without you crushing the wind out of me!” That was as close as she could come to apologizing, I figured.
    “I’m sorry,” I said, looking toward what must have been the kitchen. I could hear Nate opening and closing doors, then the suction sound that an expensive refrigerator makes when the freezer is opened. “Is your shoulder hurting?” Mrs. Whitney was using her fingers to explore an area near her neck, then her right arm.
    “You’re as strong as a damn man,” she snapped. “Maybe you are—I don’t see how anyone could tell for sure.” The woman glanced at me, hoping she’d hurt my feelings or made me mad. She’d done both, but I wasn’t going to show it, especially when she added, “Baggy denim shirt and shorts, my God—you look like a damn housepainter. Or some dyke who works at Goodwill. Have you ever heard of something called ‘a hairstylist’?”
    Loretta’s damaged brain, rather than hardening me to insults, has taught me that mean words are the only way a person in pain has of striking out and warning others to keep their distance. Not that Loretta doesn’t sometimes make me so mad I want to hurl a cup across the room. And not that all people can use that excuse. I’ve met men and women who’ve got so much poison in them, it’ll seep into everyone around them if you give it the chance. But Mrs. Whitney had the cloudy, glittering eyes of a wounded dog that didn’t want to be touched. She had secluded herself inside this house and inside herself. Now she was warning me not to come any closer.
    There was no knowing what events had dragged this woman so low, but Ricky Meeks had done at least some of the damage, I would have bet on it. From the way Mrs. Whitney looked, from the amount of trash that had piled up around her, she’d been sinking for months, which fit with the time line I was piecing together in my head. Meeks had worked for the woman in February, March, and part of April, too, from what Nathan had told me. According to the folder on Olivia Seasons, Meeks had moved his boat to Naples during the first week of May to work on the seawall, spending his nights at the dock behind Olivia’s house.
    I couldn’t be absolutely sure the man had something to do with her poor condition, of course, unless Mrs. Whitney was willing to open up. Yet, I felt certain enough to risk taking the woman’s hand in mine and saying, “After I’ve said what I came to say, I’d welcome advice on how to dress better. Thing is, Mrs. Whitney”—the woman was struggling to free her hand, so I released it and slid the photo of Ricky Meeks in front of her—“this man ran off with the niece of somebody I know. That’s what they think, anyway. She’s about my age but not a strong girl. Her family’s got money, and it’s made her sort of trusting and naïve. What I need to know is, is this man dangerous? If he’s dangerous, if you think he’ll hurt the girl, the family needs to do something.”
    That got the woman’s attention but also might have wilted what little spirit was left in her. “My God,” she said softly. She’d turned her head as if not trusting herself to make eye contact with Ricky Meeks, whose careful spit curl formed a hook, I noticed for the first time, above his small black eyes. “My God,” she said again, then added, “he’s doing it to someone else now.”
    The temptation was to ask, Doing what? but I decided it was better not to push. The woman was hurting inside and it showed—which had to be even more embarrassing for someone like Mrs. Whitney because she was revealing it to a me, a stranger, who had nothing in common with her. That wasn’t true of her and Olivia Seasons, though.
    “The girl’s father left her a