So if he had the chance to do something physical, he did it as a matter of course.

This time he did it also in hopes of cooling his temper.

It didn’t work.

He hit the fourth floor, moved through the door and followed the signs to her room number.

Without delay, he knocked.

Then he waited.

It couldn’t have taken more than a minute but that minute was too fucking long and he was about to knock again when the door was open.

And there she was right in front of him.

Her hair was no longer down but in a messy knot with thick, spiky locks shooting out of it everywhere at the top back of her head. She was no longer dripping silver and wearing black but wearing very faded jeans and an equally faded and beat up once burgundy now washed out tee. The deteriorating white decal on front had a cowboy in chaps and spurs being thrown from a bronco with western-style words that demanded you, “Eat it, cowboy!” underneath and in an arch over it, it said, “Schub’s Texas Saloon and Hoedown”. Her feet were bare, toes tipped in the same wine as her fingernails and he registered she couldn’t be more than five foot seven but was probably closer to five foot six. He knew this because, at six one, he had quite a ways to look down at her.

She still had on her makeup and silver bracelets on both wrists.

And she was staring up at him, eyes wide, lips parted, visibly shocked.

“Mike,” she whispered.

And that, again irrationally and again he didn’t give a fuck, pissed him off.

Dusty, comfortable, removed, sitting in her hotel room relaxing.

Yeah, it pissed him off.

So he pushed past her and walked in her room.

It was nice, clean, well-decorated. He’d been in one of these rooms once when someone had OD’ed in one two years ago. Other than that, never.

There was a beat up but stylish tan leather satchel on the luggage stand. A scattering of her jewelry with a cell phone and a keycard were on the nightstand. Her blazer, skirt and turtleneck were tossed, clearly without thought, on the chair. Her cowboy boots both on their sides were in front of the chair where they’d been dropped and forgotten. Her big, fringed, black suede purse looked like it had exploded on the desk. There was an MP3 player on the bed, the covers not smooth, the pillows piled against the headboard and depressed. She’d been lying there, enjoying music.

This, he saw, hadn’t changed. Not ever. She’d shared a room with Debbie who was obsessively tidy. Dusty had always been…not. In any way. She did her chores as given to her by her mother but her side of the room always looked like a tornado had been through it. Mrs. Holliday used to nag her about it but had given up. Debbie fought with her all the time about it. Dusty never gave a shit. Dusty had better things to do and she made this point clear when she found a plaque in a gift shop, bought it with her allowance and put it on her side of the room. It stated, “Boring women have immaculate homes.” It was a daily “fuck you” to her sister. Mike had always secretly thought it was hilarious. Debbie hated that fucking plaque, it drove her insane. And no matter how many times Mike explained that her getting angry about it was feeding Dusty’s glee, she just kept right on getting angry about it.

“What are you doing here?”

He heard her voice, soft, musical and he turned to face her.

She’d sung in the children’s choir at church in addition to both the junior high and high school choirs. She’d had a lot of solos. Her voice was pure and sweet, reminiscent of Karen Carpenter. Even when she had her turn, she never quit singing. She went to competitions with the choir all over the state, won ribbons and trophies and led the choir to county, sectional, regional and, in her senior year, state victories. She cleaned away the grunge for that, he’d heard since Darrin had told him about it, again proudly. She loved singing so much she gave up the grunge to do it. Her speaking voice, even when she was younger, was nearly as beautiful as her singing voice. He’d always thought so.

And it hadn’t changed.

And, fuck him, with maturity, it was also a lot fucking better.

“Your Mom and Dad, sisters, nephews, they’re all at the farm,” he informed her.

“I know,” she replied quietly.

“They could use your help,” he went on.

“I –” she started but, pissed, Mike talked over her.

“Rhonda’s a fuckin’ mess. Your Mom looks like she’s been hit by a freight train. Your nephews have both closed down. Your Dad’s usin’ so much energy not to unman himself in front of company, it’s a wonder he doesn’t collapse and you? You’re kickin’ back in jeans and a tee, listenin’ to tunes and maybe contemplating what to get from room service.”

Her face changed, he saw it and he understood the change. Even if he wasn’t a cop and his ex-wife hadn’t made an art of deceit to hide her overspending, both these giving him years of experience reading people, he would have understood the change.

She looked like he’d struck her.

Mike didn’t care. She needed to snap out of it.

So he held her eyes and kept going.

“I don’t get you, Dusty. I didn’t get your bullshit twenty years ago. I don’t get it now. No, strike that, I definitely don’t get it now. This is your family. These people love you and they just put your brother in the ground. Seriously, I wanna know and you’re gonna fuckin’ tell me. What in the fuck is the matter with you?”

“You’re joking,” she whispered.

“I’m not,” he returned.

“You’re joking,” she repeated immediately on another whisper.

“I’m not,” he repeated too.

Then, instantly, she leaned in, her eyes narrowed and she shrieked, “You’re joking!”

Mike opened his mouth to retort but Dusty wasn’t done.

“I don’t see you for twenty years, Darrin’s fucking dead, you walk up to my hotel room and give me Debbie’s shit? Have you lost your mind?” She threw her hands up, took the three steps that separated them and poked him hard in the chest. “You know her. You know her and her shit.” She threw both hands up again and asked, “Honest to God, Mike, honest to God? You think I’m kicking back?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. She leaned in and shouted in his face, “Well, I’m not!”

She took two steps away then pivoted and started pacing.

And, at the same time, she let it all hang out.

“Fucking Debbie. Debbie! God, if I didn’t know it would kill my mother, I’d get in a bitch-slapping, hair-pulling, rolling around the house, smackdown sister catfight with that bitch. God!” she cried, stopped and whirled on him. “Rhonda’s a goddamned mess but even as a mess, she knew what Darrin wanted. Does Debbie listen?” She leaned into him again and shouted, “No! Rhonda said Darrin wanted only family, a small service, no big thing, no one at the house. He knew Rhonda couldn’t deal with that shit. He knew, fuck, everyone knows Rhonda’s sensitive. He knew bad shit went down with him if he was forty-four or ninety-four, she wouldn’t be able to cope. So he wanted it easy on her. He wanted to give us the closure we all needed then get us to a place where she could help his wife move on. But not Debbie, no,” she drew out the “no” sarcastically. “It’s not seemly, Debbie says. The town will want to say their good-byes, Debbie says. Darrin is the fourth generation to work that farm, Debbie says, so we’ve got to keep up appearances, Debbie freaking says. Has Debbie been sleeping with my brother for the last twenty years?” she asked, leaning in then jerking back and shouting, “No! Has she given him two sons? No! Does she give a shit what he wanted? Does she give a shit about what would be easier on Rhonda, my boys and, frankly, Mom? No! She wants what she wants and fuck anyone else. So guess what, Mike? She pushed and she pushed and she bitched and she wheedled and she played games and we were all so fucking over her shit, she got what she fucking wanted.”

She stopped shouting and did it breathing hard, the pain stark in her eyes right alongside the fury.

But Mike had long since realized his mistake. He knew it. He saw it all over her at the funeral home, his instincts screamed it but he ignored it and now he felt like a dick. And he felt this because he’d acted like one.

So he instigated damage control.

“Sweetheart –” he started but she shook her head, stepped back and kept talking.

“That’s not the worst of it, Mike. He wanted to be cremated. Debbie said no. And Rhonda wanted a closed casket. And Debbie…said…” she leaned in, “no.”

“Jesus,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” she snapped back immediately. “Jesus. And Rhonda is sensitive but she isn’t stupid. My brother died and she called me right away. She knew she didn’t have the strength to deal with arrangements. She knew Debbie would be Debbie. She knew what Darrin wanted, told me and I sorted it all out. Every last fucking detail. Then Mom, being Mom and never able to keep her mouth shut, tells Debbie and Debbie loses her mind. Then she’s all up in my shit and wandering DC with that stupid thing attached to her ear calling me, Mom, Rhonda, Dad, George Markham, everybody. Now me, this is my brother, this is Darrin,” her voice cracked, the sorrow clogging her throat. Mike prepared to move to her but she pressed on and he stopped, “I wanted what he wanted. I wanted to look out for his woman, his family.”

Her voice was thick, her words were taking effort but she kept going, needing to say them so Mike stood where he was and let her.