She looked in the rearview mirror. Nothing she could do about the hard exhaustion in her face and the newly acquired slump to her shoulders. She straightened her tie when she parked the car, then changed her mind and stuffed the tie in the glove compartment. Cujo’s was winding down—it was late, a weeknight. Sonora wondered if Selma was around, watching him, watching her. She paused in the doorway, and people stared. Something about her always said cop. Keaton sat by himself a few feet from the bar where he could see the front door, the restrooms, and the television. He was close to the end of his beer. His khakis were wrinkled, but his shirt was freshly pressed and he had shaved after five. He looked tired and pale and wonderful. Sonora rested a hand on the chair across from him. “Hello, Keaton Daniels.” “Sit down. I saw you on the news tonight, and I was wondering about all those developments you mentioned.” Sonora sat and smiled sadly. “It’s all hype, isn’t it?” “It’s hot breaking yet, I won’t lie to you.
