Senior Deputy Delmar Johnson was not eager to read the journal of a dead woman.
Presumed dead, he corrected himself, hoping it wasn’t so. He almost felt he’d gotten to know Chris Christian in recent weeks, watching videos of her special reports, piecing together elements of her interrupted life
But all day he’d put off reading her journal—even to the point of lingering over dinner at the Bird’s Nest. Now just outside the restaurant, he delayed for a moment longer, taking in the view.
The customary coastal chill of late spring was settling over the Central Coast as it prepared to bed down for the night, almost ready to pull a foggy blanket over its shoulders. Those hills do look like shoulders, he thought, still reveling in his good fortune at having moved here. I’m a long way from South Central Los Angeles.
He worried that his reflexes had slowed in an atmosphere no longer charged with nightly drive-by shootings. And he rejoiced that he could now go several hours thinking about something beyond survival of the fittest.
Gravel crunched under Del’s boots as he crossed the parking lot, and he felt comforted by these surroundings, enjoying a new sense of belonging. Tempting though it was to head for his cozy studio apartment, he could no longer avoid his self-appointed task of reading the journal.
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