Size 12 1/2
The only thing worse than sweating at night was when the dirt stuck to that sweat, creating a fragrance suitable for gagging. Amy had been working hard, but the dirty sweat paste was grossing her out.
She wiped her brow with a filthy blue dish towel and stepped back, almost tripped over the damn thing.
It had been his, obviously. Aside from the fact she didn’t wear boots hardly at all, she could probably fit booth her feet in that Wolverine Work Boot. Then, there had been the times when she’d heard the hard rubber soles stomping across her floor and been filled with desire. Then trepedation. Then dread.
The boot had belonged to the right foot of the guy who used to kick her in the stomach, stealing wind and pride. It belonged to the right foot of the guy who dented her Impala in anger in front of her mother. It belonged to the right foot of the guy who had held her down and raped her when she tried to leave.
There it was, splayed out on the dirt.
The things you forget when you bury a guy.