Chapter Forty-One Amanda
Chapter Forty-One
Amanda
The worst part of that stupid book Amanda had to read for her community college Arthurian literature class, Le Morte d’Arthur? The ending.
After being saved from execution, Queen Guinevere decides to shut herself away in a convent, an act of penance for the sin of fucking whoever she wanted. It was bullshit, Amanda thought. Queen Guinevere shouldn’t be sorry. She should be pissed at everyone who spoiled her fun. She should be livid.
She should want revenge.
Amanda thinks about this now as Paul (or is it Peter?) drives west along State Highway 71.
His hands—manicured, soft, free of knuckle hair, and bearing a gold band on a particular finger—tell a story: meticulous.
White collar. Married. Of course, this man wouldn’t have agreed to drive Amanda the two and a half hours from Houston if his marriage mattered to him.
But neither his motivations nor his expectations are Amanda’s concern.
Maybe she’ll screw him as thanks. Or maybe she’ll run off before he can ask for gas money. Her only concern right now is getting where she needs to go.
As though reading her mind, he suddenly asks, “So what’s at Austin State Hospital? Visiting a friend?”
“Something like that.” Anyone else would probably tell this guy to fuck off and mind his own business, but Amanda doesn’t mind a little conversation. She’s been too quiet for too long.
“You know,” Paul-or-maybe-Peter continues, “this isn’t a regular hospital. It’s a”—he lowers his voice dramatically—“psychiatric facility.”
“I know.”
His eyes flick to the scar above her left eyebrow—months old now, but still fresh enough to look tender—before returning to the road. “You must be a good friend. I hear that place is haunted.”
“I don’t think it’s all that bad,” Amanda says. “In fact, my friend who’s there? I think she deserves to be somewhere much worse.”