Armed With Steele Read Online Free Page B

habit, “I’m home!”
    Dead silence greeted me. Reminded me again that there would be no Grace home with me tonight. And maybe not tomorrow, either.
    With a shake of my head I pushed that possibility from my mind, determined to stay positive. I passed through the kitchen in darkness, reached the living room, and took a step toward my bedroom. But one spare glance in the direction of Grace’s room later, my temporary bubble of optimism burst. I sank onto the couch, tossed our purses aside, and let the tears I’d fought back so valiantly all evening have their way with me.
    After a few minutes, I reached for my purse and rummaged around for a tissue. But after a moment of searching, I realized nothing in it felt right. The objects my hand touched seemed foreign to me, all the wrong shapes and sizes, and not a single tissue in the bunch.
    I fumbled in the dark to turn on the closest end table lamp. Once my eyes adjusted to the light I realized why, in my blind search, I’d found nothing suitable for drying my cheeks—it was Grace’s purse I’d reached into, not my own.
    I pulled the black bag onto my lap and stared down at it. Debated whether or not to snoop a second time. After a second or two, I peeled the Coach open once more. And I felt guilty for doing it, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
    Though we were the best of friends and long time roommates, we’d always had an unspoken rule, a mutual understanding, that there were two things in our home that were sacred and not to be touched: our individual containers of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, and our purses.
    Of course, there were exceptions to the purse rule: quick dives into them to snatch up ringing cell phones, grabbing a wallet to pay the pizza delivery guy for the roommate whose nail polish was still tacky, etc. And I’d shopped with her enough times to know how meticulous she was when putting things into, or taking things out of, her purse. Which meant I also knew that the mess in my lap was sure as hell not just from her car rolling down a hill.
    I hadn’t argued the point with Matt, but even back in the parking garage I’d had the sneaking suspicion that someone had rifled through her bag. But why? What had they been looking for?
    I unlatched her wallet. The one credit card she carried was still nestled squarely into its little pocket, right next to her library card. I counted the cash tucked evenly into the larger sleeve. Eighteen dollars—more than usual for the gal who would rather throw herself to the wolves than relinquish the use of her VISA debit card.
    I snapped her wallet shut and frowned. If it wasn’t money they were after, then what was it?
    The purse was deep, its lining black. I scooted closer to the light, to get a better view inside. Scraps of paper were scattered around its bowels—so very unGrace-like. Me, I always stuffed receipts inside the main zipper and tossed my wallet in on top of them. Left them buried until the accumulated clutter drove me to have a clean my purse day. But not Grace. She lived by the a place for everything and everything in its place motto.
    I continued to dig until I found her zippered, leather day planner. The place for all her loose papers. Her notes-to-self. Her appointment reminders. She’d think of something she needed to grab at the store, or which book she wanted to borrow from the library next, and whip that puppy out to scribble her thoughts down. Then she’d re-zip it—as if the zzzzup sound brought closure to her moment of planning—and place it carefully back into her purse.
    Tonight, however, the leather planner flopped open in my hands. It was empty of receipts and loose notes, its notepad void of scribbles. I started to close it, then noticed the calendar on the left was crinkled. I brought the planner up to my face to take a closer look. And then I saw it: the scraggly remains of a since-removed page from her small, spiral-bound notepad.
    A knot formed in my stomach.