But I can't tell him any more of my secret thoughts. The shame of wanting a man who has done the incomprehensible to me. How I agonize over every decision I have made since Sam drove away.
“I have it, Andrew. His box of trinkets. I bet you thought he took it with him when he cleaned the place out. You must know about that. All the little things he took from us. All the mementos. Like this...” I reach down and hold the moon charm on my necklace between my fingers. It used to mean so much to me. I didn't think it could symbolize any more than it already did, but now it's overflowing; loaded. It holds so much that I feel its heaviness pressing down on my neck every day.
He doesn't say anything. He just waits there with his arms crossed, lips pressed into a tight line, as the occasional car passes or child runs by.
“I have it. You have to understand that I have nothing left. And if I can't get to him, then the only way I can bring him to me is to tell everything I know. To go to the FBI and hand them that box and tell them everything.”
“You wouldn't.”
“I don't want to.”
“Is this a threat?” he asks, his brow glistening with sweat.
“If something happens to me, it will be found. And then there will be more questions than you can answer.”
“When is this going to end? I thought we were going to forget this?”
“It ends when you tell me where I can find him. So I can end this myself. You had your reasons for lying and I had mine. You can go back to your family and I can finish what was started.”
“What are you going to do when you find him? Kill him? You think Sam's gonna let that happen?” Andrew is tight, trying to hold in the sleepless nights, the betrayal, the frustration. He jabs his finger at his temple. “He's smart, Vesp. He's evaded us for years. You think he's going to trust you? And if you kill him, that puts me in the same spot I was trying to avoid, having our name on the news.”
“I promise you telling me won't come back to you. This isn't even about you.”
“You're nuts. This conversation is over. If you go and see him, try to attack him, it’s you who will end up dead,” he snipes through gritted teeth. Sheriff turns abruptly and walks away, leaving me without options. I played all my hands and he's called my bluff.
He makes it about twenty feet away, before looking side to side and stomping back over to me. “You know what? You want to go find him, you want to put yourself in danger? Fine. But I want that box.”
“I don't trust you.”
“Well I don't trust you.”
“Just tell me,” I say. “And you won't have to see me again. Ever. I don't want money. I want to know where he is. And that box will be in the ocean or in a fireplace once I have him. If he kills me, it’ll be safe with him. I have no reason to want that thing to come to the light of day. Not unless you give me one.”
He pauses for a moment. His lips purse a few times because he knows he's getting a raw deal. But he knows he owes me. He almost took my life from me. The least he could do is give me this.
I give him a little extra push. “I'll find him. Now you can either direct me, or I can snoop around.”
He sighs and looks at his watch. “Shit, Katie's going to kill me.” He looks back up at me. “He's in L.A. At least the last time I checked. I thought I wanted to know what he was up to, but the truth is I don't. Because if he hasn't stopped…I can't know. I can't—” his voice catches. Andrew Hunter-Ridgefield is a cop, through and through. There's something in the way he walks, a pride, an honor. I can tell this—what we've done—it's like a parasite eating him from the inside out. His need to protect his family and the very badge he has worked for going against the very thing that badge stands for.
“Thank you,” I say, “And this is goodbye. Really.”
“Yeah,” he replies sarcastically, taking a few steps back, keeping his eyes on me before turning and leaving me standing there alone on that corner.
I take a sip from the fresh mug of coffee and my eyes train up to the fuzzy small screen behind the counter. There's a sketch of a man with a mask on the screen. Like moth to a flame, I hover over to it, nearly bumping into a waitress. The one behind the counter turns to look what has me so interested.
“Oh the volume on this thing is broken. Have you heard about him? It's scary.”
“Who is that?”
“Nobody knows, it's this guy that's been breaking into homes and killing people.”
“Killing people?” I repeat, my stomach and heart swirling in a sickening fashion. This can't be him. Not my Sam. Sam doesn't kill.
But just like I feel I'm closer to him, my gut clenches almost painfully, telling me something.
I turn around just as a man leaves the diner and his paper on the booth where he was sitting.