“Just, you know, a common form of greeting.”
And it’s not hey, she thinks, because that’s what you said in the car when you almost touched my leg.
“Howdy,” she says back.
“You know, I thought those guys would be nicer to me if I was out of uniform. But it kinda took some work.”
“Didn’t you threaten to run all of them because you were having a fight with Marty?”
“Yeah, there’s that.”
“Well, whatever you did, it’s fine now. Things seemed to be going all right last time I checked.”
“Same strategy I always use to win people over.”
“And what’s that?”
“I just tell a few stories that make it clear I know I’m an asshole.”
“Is that so?”
“Worked with you, didn’t it?”
“No, not really.”
“Ah, well. Shucks.”
“Honesty. Telling me what happened with your brother. That’s what worked for me. If you really want to know.”
“Well, good, ’cause I do.”
He looks at the notebook she’s holding against her chest with both arms like it might fly away. And he doesn’t ask about it, which she appreciates.
“So am I out of the doghouse yet?” he asks.
“Why? You eager to get home?”
“Not in the slightest, actually. I’m having a pretty good time, and the steaks smell great. But I’d be having a better time if I knew you and I were . . . cool.”
“Cool?”
“If I knew whether or not my offer had been accepted.”
“To help, you mean?”
He nods.
“What about your job, Luke?”
“Yeah, as you can tell, it really takes up all my time. I was in the station for what? A whole hour and a half today?” Apparently he doesn’t like what he sees in her expression, because he bows his head. “Look, if you’re not comfortable after everything, I get it. I’m not gonna force you. I just . . .”
“You just what?”
“I don’t want you to string me along because you’re afraid I’m gonna run to the press or the FBI or something.”
“Well, you did almost call Mona when I asked you not to. That was scary, Luke.”
“I know. And I apologize. And no matter what happens, no matter what you decide, I won’t say a word about any of this. I promise.”
She’s not afraid of him blabbing. She agrees with Marty. With Bailey involved, Luke won’t bring any outside attention to this.
And she’s not still mad at him. Not exactly.
Instead, looking at him now, dressed in his version of decked out, his big brown eyes full of sorrow and expectation, his stare steady and penetrating even though he’s downed two beers—she counted, which should tell her something—she feels something altogether different.
Something that must be attraction, but it’s all tangled up in other feelings like sadness and anxiety. And because she’s so rarely felt attracted to a man who isn’t a character in a movie or novel, she’s not sure if those are signs it’s real or fleeting. It feels like there’s a weight to Luke Prescott that’s pulling on her, making her unsteady on her feet, but if she gives in, she’s more likely to end up flat on her face than in his arms.
Part of her wants to tell him to go. To absolve him of his past sins. To tell him that when it comes to her and their shared past, the slate’s clean, and he should go back to his small-town cop life and make the best of it. Because no way can she drag him through the mud ahead, even if he throws her the rope with gusto.
But that’s the easy way out.
Is it better to be helped by people who actually care about you? Or is it better to be helped by someone with a self-interest that matches your own in some way? Which camp does Marty belong in? Which camp would Luke belong in, if she lets him back in?
Finally, her arms respond to this storm of thoughts before her mouth can.
She holds the notebook out to him. “I want you to read this,” she hears herself say.
“What is it?” he asks in almost a whisper.
“It’s my story. I mean, it’s not a novel or anything. I wrote it in the past two days. But it’s not my father’s version, and it’s not Hollywood’s version. It’s mine. It’s actually what happened to me. And if you’re gonna help me, I want you to read it.”
“Deal,” he says. He takes it from her grip.
Then he brushes past her, and to her shock, she realizes he’s about to sit down at Marty’s desk with it.
“Well, you don’t have to read it now.”
“Why not? I’m all out of cop jokes.”
“OK. Well, go in the guest bedroom, where you have some privacy. I don’t want the guys coming in and . . . you know. Flipping through it or something.”
He nods as if this were the most normal of requests. As if everything about this exchange is normal. He’s pulling the door shut behind him when she calls his name. He stops.
“I want your help. But I don’t want your agenda. And I want you to listen to what I’m thinking and not tell me what I’m thinking. Can you do that?”
He nods. Then when she goes silent again, he holds up the notebook and waggles it a little, as if he’s reminding her she just gave him a job to do. Then he pulls the door closed behind him with a soft click, and for a while she just stands there, wondering how something that feels so important could happen so quickly.
When he notices she’s awake, Marty asks, “What’s he reading in there?”
Beer plus red meat equaled a wallop of a nap as soon as she’d cleaned her plate. Now she’s come to in one of the deck chairs. Most of the guys are gone, but a few stragglers remain, sitting in a circle of chairs someone brought down to the driveway after she nodded off.
“He’s still reading?” she asks.
“Yep. Even came out and got his steak finally, then took it back in there so he could read some more.”
Well, that’s something. She’d figured he’d ask to take it home with him so he could only pretend to read the rest.
“Uh-oh,” Marty says.
He moves to the deck rail like a dog perking up at the approach of a stranger. A pair of high-riding headlights swing into the driveway. A sheriff’s cruiser, just like the one Luke drove her around in that day, only the deputy who steps from it is half Luke’s height and twice his age.
“Whatcha need, Henricks?” Marty calls to the man.
“Luke Prescott here?”
“He’s inside. Why?”
“His cell’s off. We tried calling him a bunch from the station. We’re getting calls from Dorothy Strickland, lives across the street from him. Says his alarm’s making all kinds of racket. But it’s weird. Sounds almost like music.”
“Bailey,” Charlotte whispers, getting to her feet.
“Go,” Marty says quietly. “Get Luke and go. I’ll stay here.”
She slips inside as Marty says, “We’ll take care of it. Thanks, Henricks.”
35
The alarm’s still singing when they get to Luke’s house, the same two-tone chime Bailey used to get their attention the first time. This time the sound fills Charlotte with excitement instead of dread.
“Stop!” Luke calls out. “We’re here.”
The music stops, but there’s some kind of flashing light in the living room. It strobes through the rest of the place like some effect in a cheap haunted house. It’s the monitor of Luke’s desktop, she realizes. It’s flashing the same words over and over again. TARGET ACQUIRED.
Luke hits some light switches, but it doesn’t make the words on-screen seem any less ominous. When he takes a seat at his desk, the words stop flashing. Further proof Bailey can see and hear them through the monitor’s built-in camera.
New words appear on-screen, white on black. Comically large, but devoid of any ironically cheerful graphics this time.
Check your e-mail, brother.