Four Blind Mice

Chapter Thirty-Five

I woke up alone in bed the next morning with the sheets thrown every which way around my body. I was kind of used to the feeling, but I didn't like it anymore than I ever had, especially with Jamilla sleeping just down the hallway in the spare bedroom. I hoped she was okay with how things were going and didn't want to go back to San Francisco already.

I lay in bed for a few minutes, thinking about other people who wake up feeling alone, even though some of them do share a bed with somebody else. Finally, I slid into some loose-fitting clothes, then tiptoed down the hall to check on Jamilla.

I tapped lightly on the door.

“I'm awake. Come in,” I heard her say.

It was a nice sound, her voice musical, sweet. I pushed against the door and it opened with a soft whine.

“Morning, Alex. I slept great,” Jamilla said. She was sitting up in bed, wearing a white tee-shirt with SFPD printed on it in black. She started to laugh. “Sexy, huh?”

“Actually, yeah. Detectives can be sexy. Samuel T. Jackson in Shaft, Pam Grier in Foxy Brown. Jamilla Hughes in the guest bedroom.”

She whispered, “Come over here, you. Just for a minute. Come here, Alex. That's an order.”

I came forward and Jamilla reached out her arms. I slid into them like I belonged there. Kind of nice. “Where were you when I needed you last night?” I asked her.

“I was right here in the guest room,” she smiled, and winked. “Listen, I don't want your kids to get the wrong idea either. But.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “But?” I asked. “But what?”

“Just but. I'll leave the rest up to you.”

As we were finishing breakfast in the kitchen, without the cloth napkins I told Nana and the kids that Jamilla and I were going to tour Washington for the rest of the day. We needed a little time to ourselves. The kids just nodded over their cereal bowls; they'd been expecting as much.

“I won't expect you two home for supper then,” Nana said. “Is that right?”

“That's right,”I said. “We'll catch a meal in town.”

“Uh huh,” Nana said.

“Uh huh,” said the kids.

I drove about four miles from the house on Fifth. I pulled into 2020 O Street and stopped the car. Some people might have trouble finding the place, or even any information about the Mansion on O Street. There's no sign hanging outside, no indication that it isn't a private residence. Most guests come to the Mansion because of word of mouth. I happen to know the owner through friends at Kinkead's restaurant in Foggy Bottom.

Jamilla and I went inside, where I registered, and then we were brought upstairs to the Log Cabin room. Along the way, just about every surface, corner, cranny and crevice was filled with antique puppets, lithographs, jewelry in glass cases. We took it all in. Silently.

A strange thing happened to me on our way upstairs. I had the thought, here I go again. It almost caused me to stop walking and head back to the car. But something inside told me not to give up, not to shut feelings out, to put my trust in Jamilla.

Neither of us said a word until the bellman was gone.