By JT Ellison
May 9th, 2006.
It was a lovely spring afternoon, and my parents were visiting as they drove across country on their bi-annual trip between houses. We were watching A History of Violence, and I remember squirming with the slightest bit of embarrassment because we were at the cheerleader scene. Definitely the movie to watch with your parents, I’m telling you. So when the phone rang, I was relieved, it meant we could hit pause. I looked at the television screen right before the caller ID, Viggo’s head had juuuuuuust disappeared, and I was mentally cursing my ability to hit the pause button at precisely the worst moment when I glanced at the caller ID screen and saw the 212 area code.
Cue heart pounding.
Cue exceptionally bad word, starting with F and ending in me. “F*&# me, it’s Scott,” I said, with the utmost delicacy. Hey, I am a crime fiction writer, after all.