Damage by Mark Feggeler

and a sprawling tattoo on her left calf brought Ray a glass of water and a set of silverware wrapped in a paper napkin. Beads of sweat held tight to her forehead.
    "Hey darling," she said. "What can I get for you?"
    Ray didn't need to read the menu. He knew it by heart. Even so, he flipped through the breakfast options, unable to make a decision.
    "Can I order from the lunch menu, Sheila?" he asked.
    The waitress smirked at him like he was a naughty boy and said he could. Ray ordered a chili cheeseburger with a side of coleslaw, an order of onion rings, and a Diet Coke. Walter asked for a bottle of hot sauce before Sheila headed off to the kitchen. He dumped a spoonful of grits on his toast and took a bite.
    "Is Becky pissed at me?" Ray asked.
    "Pretty much," said Walter dismissively between bites. "She's been worse, though."
    Ray slumped back in his seat and watched the lemon pulp settle slowly through the ice to the bottom of his glass. He picked at the last splinter of glass in his palm. It was barely a sliver and didn't hurt, not really, but it kept catching on his clothing. Looking down at his pants he realized for the first time they were stained with blood, as was the front of his jacket. Probably none of it was his. Sheila returned with Ray's soda.
    "Sorry it's so hot in here, guys," she said when she saw Ray taking off his jacket. "Our heat pump quit last night and that kitchen gets this whole place hotter than hell on a Friday night. What'd you get all over yourself?"
    It took Ray a few seconds to realize she had directed her question at him. She stood there, lip curled on one side, looking down at his chest. A quick scan of his shirt revealed a large smear of blood about the size of his fist just below the shirt pocket.
    "Oh, that's blood," he answered.
    "Nuh uh," Sheila said, her nose drawing up to complete the Elvis impersonation. Even Walter's attention was drawn away from the scrambled eggs he was generously dousing with hot sauce. Sheila leaned in for a closer look. "How'd you get so much blood on you?"
    "Is that from Evan Wallace?" Walter asked. As though sensing he appeared more interested than he intended, Walter sat back and returned to his eggs. "I'd have thought his blood would be bluer than that."
    "Evan Wallace?" Sheila said. "What happened to Evan Wallace?"
    Before Ray could formulate the best way to begin the story of the morning's adventure, Walter scooped it.
    "Somebody shot him," Walter said.
    "No way! Is that what all the noise was about this morning? I had to drop my son off to Momma, so I was running late and I heard all them sirens passing by. Were they all going out to Wilkston Creek?"
    Her question caught Ray by surprise. Many people either knew, or knew of, the Wallaces, but Sheila was one of the last people he expected to know their home address.
    "How do you know where they live?" Ray asked.
    "My Josie babysat their little girl Emma a few times," she said. Sheila grabbed a chair and pulled it under her to sit at the end of the table. "Their second baby, Anna, came along short after they finished building that big, beautiful house. Josie never got to watch the baby cause her momma quit her job to stay home with her girls after that."
    "How old are their daughters now?" Walter asked.
    "Oh, let's see. I guess Emma's about five by now, and the little one probably just turned two." Sheila smacked Ray's arm with the back of her hand. "Okay, you! Tell me what happened to Mr. Wallace?"
    This time Ray got the drop on Walter, thanks to the heaping spoonful of grits he had just ladled into his mouth. He described his morning to them, leaving out the bit about Sheriff Redmond confiscating the camera. Walter finished his meal. Sheila gawked at Ray in disbelief.
    "So that must be Mrs. Wallace's blood on you," she said.
    "Hers and some of mine," Ray said, holding up his hands to show her the dozen or so cuts and scrapes from the broken glass. "She's still alive, though. At least, I think she is. She