Free The Day I Killed James by Catherine Ryan Hyde Page A

streetlight, stood Frieda.
    She looked at Frieda, and Frieda looked at her.
    She had changed a little over the months, Annie noticed. Her hair had been done in a frizzier style, and her lips and nails, classically blood-red, looked almost dark purple in this limited light. Still nothing had been said.
    Annie spoke first. Leaned through the door and addressed Frieda in a hushed tone, a near whisper. “What are you doing here?”
    Frieda leaned in to meet her halfway, stage-whispering in an obvious parody of Annie, “I was just about to ask you the same question. Why are we whispering?”
    “It’s late,” Annie said, which wasn’t why.
    “Yeah, sorry about that. Who’s Annie Stewart?”
    “Oh. Well, that’s kind of a long story.”
    Frieda’s arms flew out wide, as if to take in every possible explanation. “I’ve got nothing but time.”
    Out of options, Annie conceded that she had best come in.
    I’m doing this very well after all those tequilas, she thought as she stepped back from the doorway, allowed Frieda into her living room, closed the door behind them.
    She turned back to Frieda, who said, “Boy, you’re hammered. Huh?”
    “How did you find me here?”
    “Look at you. Not even peach fuzz.”
    For the second time that night, a smooth hand across the bare skin of her scalp.
    “I was growing it out for a while. But sometimes I still—how did you
find
me here?”
    “Well, honey, that’s kind of a long story, too. Why don’t we save long stories for the morning? You won’t remember any of this tomorrow anyway.”
    “I’m not that drunk.”
    “Honey. I know you.”
    You don’t, she thought. Nobody does. You knew Theresa. But she didn’t say so, because it would sound like a hurtful thing to say. And because even Annie had to concede that she probably shared Theresa’s lack of resistance to alcohol.
    Frieda smiled suddenly and held her arms out. From force of habit and probably much more, Annie walked in. Frieda was a big, tall girl, and Annie’s head rested comfortably on her shoulder, her face in the crook of her neck. Frieda held her.
    It was every bit as comforting as embracing Todd, and a whole lot safer.

THREE
    On Not Knowing Where
    Annie woke early, for no discernible reason. She found her way to her kitchen in the half-light, her stomach queasy, eyes grainy, head a mess. Thirsty. More than anything else, thirsty. She stood naked in the dawn at her own sink, preparing to stoop to drink the grotesque, mineral-laden local tap water. Pulled a heavy glass mug down from the cupboard.
    Dropped it on the linoleum at the sound of a voice.
    It said, “Damn. You’re skinny, aren’t you?”
    The cup landed hard on its base but did not break. The noise made Annie wince.
    Then, still rattled, she fell back against the counter, hand to her chest, breathing hard and talking to her heart.
    The lump on the living room sofa appeared to be, of all things, Frieda. The voice spoke again. “They say you can never be too thin or too rich. But you might be pushing the limits there, sweetie.”
    “Well, if it will make you happy,” she said, her voice still ragged with breath, “I’ll give away some of my money.”
    Frieda sat up, pulling the knit afghan around herself. “Sorry I startled you.”
    Annie put on a long flannel shirt and sat down on the coffee table next to the couch. Close enough to touch Frieda, but she didn’t. “Frieda. What are you doing here?”
    Frieda swept masses of hair off her face with both hands. “I was sleeping, but you put a stop to that.”
    “How did you get in?”
    Frieda fixed her with a pitying look. “I told you you wouldn’t remember last night.”
    “You did?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “When did you tell me that?”
    “Last night.”
    “Right. I guess I might have seen that one coming.”
    Her mind flickered back to the night before. Todd. She remembered sitting at the bar with him. Smoking and watching them both in the bar mirror. But what troubled her was