At Millie’s diner that morning, after Trent returned to the table from having threatened Timothy should he warn Eddie, he hurriedly browsed the White Pages on his cellphone for Timothy Stoddard. He wasn’t listed, but a Phillip Stoddard was, with a Sacramento address. It was either his father or uncle or cousin; whatever the case might be, he’d have Timothy’s number.
“What are you doing?” Mae asked him cautiously.
He shook his head at her, brought the phone to his ear and seconds later was speaking lies to an unknown man. Mae was awed at Trent’s acumen and fabricating stories. It was second nature to him. She wondered in horror what lies he might have told her, with such perfect ease.
He wasn’t on the phone for but a minute, maybe less, when he reached across the table in a hurry and snatched Mae’s purse, dug out a pen and began jotting down a phone number on his cloth napkin. Upon ending the call with that man, Trent entered the phone number from the napkin and pressed send. His gray eyes were sharp and fixed unseeingly on the knife on the table. He mouthed the words fuck, rolled his eyes. He sent the same number a text message.
“You won’t do anything bad to him,” Mae asked Trent, “will you?”
“Timothy? Nah, why would I? I just want to scare him a little so he won’t talk to Eddie.”
“Not him. I meant Eddie. Will you do something really bad to him?”
“Just rough him up a little. Let him know to stay the hell out of our lives. I guess it depends on what your definition of really bad is.”