Alex's house is on the Ampwood Terrace. According to my experience, there is only one house on the balcony, and it is usually the largest house in this block. I drove par five for a long time, then turned left and drove par three for a short period of time. Then the end of the street suddenly appeared in front of a huge wrought iron gate: 1 Ampwood Street .
I don't want to announce that I have come to the box at the door. I was considering whether to jump over the fence. At this time, the door began to rotate inwards. Watching Alex open the door is like watching a hundred-year-old paraplegic taking a spacewalk on freshly poured concrete. The door finally opened wide enough to let the Range Rover crunch through. Or make it wide enough, I think I can squeak the Range Rover past. My rear-view mirror is now part of the theme of the garden in front of Miss Tum. Much better than the garden dwarf, I guess.
There is a gravel road leading to the hill, through the dense spruce and pine trees, the slate roof slab of the house is almost invisible. When I was driving, my nose detected some signs of lakes or rivers. I bet there must be fresh water parked somewhere in Alex's backyard. Speaking of parking, there was a silver Wrangler Jeep parked next to the cabin twenty yards from the house, and I drove the car in that direction.
I grabbed the wine bottle and walked out, my foot sank into a bed with pine needles over an inch thick. I walked around the car and looked at the wires hanging from the rearview mirror in the front passenger's seat. When I was frustrated, I might kick off the front bumper and the rear bumper fell off again.
The height of the house is very strange and can easily be composed of two or one high ceilings. It was built entirely of cobblestone bricks, and the four-sided glass windows were set back seven or eight inches. The house is surrounded by rose bushes, and the bulbs are ready for a long winter sleep. The front door divides the house evenly - there are two windows on each side - and it's the only thing with paint. I lifted the bronze door knocker and slammed it to the door twice.
I was pulling up the door knocker to prepare for the final blow. At this time, the door pushed inward, and all I was left with was the door knocker, whose hinge compatriots hung on my fingertips.
Alex Thomas was standing in the doorway, holding the door with his right hand, and his left hand seemed to be sewn into his hip pocket. She was wearing the same clothes as before, but she was now showing a mocking smile.
I gave her money to buy the copper tube fixture, but she said that her credit card machine was not up and running.
She said: "I was surprised you would come. I didn't expect you to come."
I didn't expect a fart. She knows like me that the fancy soap has been sold out. I wandered on the recently painted wooden floor, distracting my attention between Alex and the beautiful beauty of her home.
We walked towards the kitchen, and I was surprised to find that it was full. The center of the kitchen is a black marble island with ten burners, four of which have been occupied and are in the process of brewing.
I touched one of the cherry wood cabinet doors and said: "This place is really good." Both are, so I'm not sure where that will put me.)
Alex turned a turntable on stove No. 1, No. 3, No. 5, No. 7 or No. 9 and said, "Can you get us something to drink?"
I am not sure if she is asking if I want to drink or if I am capable. She instructed me to go to the bar and ordered me whatever I wanted. I put a bottle of Cab wine on the kitchen counter, walked out of the kitchen, and found myself in a spacious living room with a long oak bar at the back. There were two paintings, one on the east wall and the west wall, and I knew right away that both of them were works by Winslow Holmes. A small sofa faces a huge flat-screen TV, and the bar in the dimly left corner is almost invisible.
I wandered behind the high bar, groping for the rows of wine bottles that Alex had placed. I made two strong glasses of gin and tonic, and then went back to the kitchen. Alex threw two thick slices of salmon on the grill, splitting the island open, arousing a pungent smell.
At this moment, I was leaning on one of her marble counters. My body and talking were obviously uncomfortable. I pulled myself up with both hands. As I pressed my weight on the counter, a hot pain tore my right butt, and I lifted myself from the marble. My gasping sound began to disappear, and soon, in the rumble of Miss Thum's laughter, it was almost inaudible.
I plucked up the courage to look back and saw this scene. Three corncob holders were exposed in the trouser pocket on the right side of my back. I slowly took out one. The blade is about an inch long and a quarter of an inch thick, and it is covered with a light red film, which is my blood.
When I took out the two remaining corn cobs, the calm Alex said, "You can keep them as souvenirs. I don't want them to touch my corn."
I smiled gently, then staggered out of the kitchen and straight through the hall to the sparsely populated bathroom. It took me a few seconds to untie my trousers, and my red four corners were peeled off the flesh. I can add that they were white when I bought them. If your impression is that the wound on your butt is not bleeding, let me be the first to tell you.
I cleaned the wound with toilet paper and warm water, and then took out some band-aids from the bathroom cabinet. There are no band-aids, but I stumbled upon a box of sanitary napkins. Um.
I took out three cushions from the box, opened them, patted them, and fixed the wings tightly on the muscles of the rose red. Then I flushed the wrapping paper into the toilet, lifted my pants, and flushed twice.
Let's take a minute to review this night, shall we? I stripped off the rear-view mirror of the passenger seat, kicked off the front bumper, ripped off Alex's door knocker, and sat on a set of corn cobs, now with three tampons stuck to my butt. Damn, maybe I should end it before burning Alex's house and putting on the tampons.
The two brothers Alcor and Tyron began to get along well, and when Alex said that the dinner started, I didn't feel sad. I followed her into the living room and saw the bar instead of the table. I thought for a while, and felt that the height of the bar is the most suitable for my current situation. The two of us walked quietly to both sides of the bar, Alex played the bartender, I played the drunk bartender, or was about to become drunk bartender.
I admire these foods, they look so beautiful. There are various grilled vegetables: mushrooms, small tomatoes, green peppers, red peppers and onions, surrounded by steaming salmon fillets. Everyone was sitting on a dirty rice cake, studded with a sprig of parsley and two lemons. I don't know if Alex wanted to impress me, or if she interned at Wolfgang Parker after graduating from college.
Alex drove a bottle of wine and took a deep breath, and when she poured wine for both of us, I took the time to focus on the message I wanted to convey to this woman. I can't wait to scold her for writing that book. But can I blame her? This is a hellish story, she got a considerable amount of transaction.
Alex pushed a full glass of Scarlet Sè Cabernet Sauvignon in front of me and said, "Let's clarify. You come first."
There is nothing here. I cleared my throat and said, "The murderer who killed those eight women is still at large."
Alex sat stunned, unknowingly stuffed a mushroom in his mouth, and said vaguely, "Well, let's listen."
I recalled what happened in the fateful boy about a year ago. Alex absorbed every detail like a thirsty sponge. Deep down in her heart was a reporter, and I could see that she was running over in twitching, picking up a pen and a pad. In the end, I made various long talks, "October 8 is a death trophy for Tristen Greer."
In my conclusion, Alex asked a question that I didn't see on the schedule that night: "Can I see the scars?"
I showed her the nickel coin-sized scar on my left shoulder, and said, "The other one is not so easy to get."
"I thought the second bullet shattered your thigh bone?"
"Yes. The femur is high." I raised my eyebrows. "High ー medial femur."
A painful expression covered her face, and she covered her mouth, "Did it cut through old branches and berries?"
Am I right? Did a famous investigative reporter just use the phrase "old branches and berries"
I bravely tried to conceal a smile, and Alex said as if reading my mind: "Sorry, fuck and dandan."
I smiled and said, "It's your turn."
Alex shook her head, "Let's rest for twenty minutes." She patted her shoulder twice with her fingertips, signifying a pause. "In the next 0 minutes, this is the date."
"Dating? Why not just a dried plum? Or a raisin?"
She rolled her eyes at me, "Are you always like this?"
No, only when I am in front of a beautiful woman, drunk, and wearing a sanitary napkin. "Well, this is a date. By the way, tapping your shoulder is a sign of a complete timeout, not twenty."
We quarreled over several referee decisions (by the way, her decision about the timeout was correct), until I kicked her out of the conversation, which she thought was funny. The way to impress a woman's heart is through her humorous cells, and my heart is always wondering whether to make Alex happy. I decided to lower the pitch and say, "So, two cowboys heard the sound of war drums on the edge of the cliff. One cowboy looked at the other cowboy and said, I don’t like the sound of those war drums. They heard someone shouting from below. Said: "He is not our ordinary drummer!" (to be continued) (end of this chapter)