“I could do that. The little guy and I really bonded. Did you see how excited he was last Sunday to watch the Lions game with me?”
I laughed. “Yes, you two were something else. Call me later?”
“Or since I have a key . . .”
“I”—I hesitated—“will see you later.” I kissed his cheek and went to find my warmer coat.
Since that night over a week ago when Dylan had stayed at my place, he’d done it more. I’d thought about giving him a key before now. After all, I had one to his place, though I’d been reluctant to accept it. He’d convinced me to take it at the same time he’d convinced me to leave clothes. I guess they kind of went together; however, I’d never used his key. Maybe I hadn’t felt comfortable being at his place without him. While I waited for my car to warm, my cold cheeks rose; I was comfortable leaving him alone at my place. As I exhaled, faint crystals of ice hung suspended in the cool morning air. My empty stomach clenched at the realization: as I’d said good-bye to the sexy man in my bed, I’d almost told him that I loved him.
When the hell did that happen?
Last week when I’d told my mom, on the phone, that I’d invited him to Christmas with us, you would’ve thought I’d told her that one of my stories was being considered for a Pulitzer. She was beyond elated that I was in a steady relationship. With two daughters, she was champing at the bit for grandchildren. Currently all she had was Fred. I’d felt bad when I let her know that he wouldn’t be making it for Christmas. Fish and carsickness made for a messy bowl.
I shook my head at the possibility. Maybe at twenty-nine years old I was ready to look at a future with someone. I’d never thought it would be with someone like Dylan, a detective, and someone others considered a hard-ass. However, when we were together, I didn’t see him the way others did.
The Saturday before he and Fred bonded over football, had started a little rocky. For some reason he wasn’t happy about my strawberry jam. I’d walked into the kitchen and found him staring at the jar. When I asked him what was going on, he explained it was an allergy. I promised I wouldn’t use it when he was near, but I would eat it. It was delicious.
Later that day we went to Dearborn for the Apple Harvest Festival. Though my research was finally falling into place and I wanted to keep working, Dylan persuaded me to take a day away from everything. I smiled at the memory; I had enjoyed the outing. The day was one of those unseasonably warm autumn days, a gift from the prewinter gods. With a warm breeze and a clear blue sky, we walked hand in hand around the festival, talking, laughing, and enjoying candied apples. As evening came, we sat on a blanket with another one wrapped about our shoulders, drinking spiked apple cider and listening to live music. While Dylan drove back to my place, I dozed off and on. For the first time ever, I experienced a complete sense of security and contentedness.
Later I told myself that it wasn’t all about Dylan; it was also about the progress I’d made on the money trail surrounding the buildings around The Light. Doing as Bernard suggested, I’d finally connected some dots. Though I’d done it all without revisiting Highland Heights, I planned to go back as soon as the first snow fell. I wanted proof that the abandoned building was in use. Footprints behind the locked fence would be that evidence, and with the way my teeth currently chattered, I’d be getting those soon.
My most exciting connection I’d made, the one I’d yet to share with anyone, was about Marcel Clarkson, the benefactor who’d donated the building that currently housed The Light. Marcel was also the original CEO of Wilkens Industries. He’d begun that private company in 1972 and had one son, Garrison Clarkson. My moment of discovery came when I realized that prior to 1990 Gabriel Clark, the founder of The Light, didn’t exist, and after 1990, Garrison Clarkson ceased to exist. The paper trail on Garrison’s demise was fuzzy at best. There was a small hospital notice listing Garrison Clarkson as deceased; however, I couldn’t verify that with state death records. The only other mention of Garrison was in a 1998 interview with Marcel in which he mentioned the loss of his son.