CHAPTER 11

Ben

I’d rather stay under the blankets with Isla a little longer, but the incessant buzzing of my phone, somewhere in the pile of clothes on the floor, compels me to get out.

“Hang on,” I answer in a hushed voice, trying to pull up my jeans and yanking a sweater from the pile. Sticking my bare feet into boots and tagging my coat from the back of the door, I slip out of the trailer. Fuck, it’s freezing.

A thin, shimmery layer of frost covers everything; the first strands of early morning light bouncing off it like silver. My breath comes out in thick cloud when I talk.

“What’ve you got?” I ask Damian, whose name shows on my call display.

“Jasper just had time to have a quick look at the image,” he says, referring to his tech guy. “It’s fake. The original picture is actually a stock photo, available on several sites, so that doesn’t help much.”

“It looked more like a grainy snapshot,” I interject, remembering the substandard quality.

“Made to look,” Damian corrects me. “The image was modified from the original. Eye color, jaw line, cheekbones. Jas was gonna send it to a friend of his, who knows more about image modification, while he gets on the email itself, but the guy won’t be able to get to it right away. I thought maybe your girl could have a closer look.”

I curb my instinctive reaction to shut him down. Perhaps I should leave the decision to Isla, whether she wants to have a look or not.

“Okay. Yeah, I’ll ask her. I’m more interested in figuring out who sent it, though. Obviously someone who knows me, but dammit, that could be a fucking long list of people.”

“I’d focus on women. I know we can’t go by the name on the email, but this kind of thing screams disgruntled female to me.”

“Only women, other than a handful of flings from my early twenties, were part of one or another undercover assignment. Part of the job. They wouldn’t even know my name.”

“She wouldn’t need to,” Damian points out. “She clearly knows what you look like.” He’s right. And she knows it well enough to recognize me as a mostly shadowed figure in a picture. “It might help to try and remember some names,” he adds.

The light flicks on in the trailer.

“I’ll work on it. I’ve gotta go,” I tell Damian. “Appreciate the help. We’ll be in touch.” I end the call and head back to the warmth of the trailer.

“Hey,” Isla greets from her favorite perch by the coffee machine when I step inside, quickly shutting the door behind me to keep out the cold. Instead of telling her, I walk right up in her space and show her how glad I am to see her. “God, you’re cold,” she mumbles against my lips.

“We had frost overnight.” I shrug out of my coat and kick off my boots. Damn, I’ll be glad when we can move into the house. As much as I enjoy close quarters with Isla, this trailer is too damn small to hold big winter coats and boots for both of us. There’s no room to move.

I drop down on the couch and catch Isla peeking through the small window over the sink.

“It’s pretty,” she says, grabbing the cup she was hoarding from under the Keurig and bringing it to me.

“Why do you do that?” I ask her, when I take the coffee from her. She looks at me puzzled, so I explain. “Every morning, you give me the first cup.” A small smile tugs at her mouth.

“It makes me feel less guilty about disturbing your morning grump with my cheery disposition.”

“Morning grump?” I growl, quickly setting my coffee on the table, before pulling her down on my lap.

“You should see your face when someone says more than two words to you before you’ve had your coffee,” she teases. “It’s downright scary.”

“You’re not scared,” I point out, tucking her head under my chin.

“Nope,” she confirms. “But I was last night. Not that you’d ever hurt me,” she quickly adds, when she notices me freeze up at her words. “You were so angry, I was afraid maybe you’d leave.”

“I’m here.”

“I know,” she says, snuggling a little closer. “One of the last things my Aunt Kate told me was that if I kept my chin up and a smile on my face, troubles would bounce off. I’ve lived that, you know; the harder the hits, the bigger the smile.”

“Hmmm,” I hum encouragingly, with my chin resting on her head.

“First time I let down that shield was with you,” she says, putting a hand over my chest. I brace myself, because I know this, and I know what happened after.

“And I lied to you,” I finish for her.

“And you lied to me,” she confirms, wistfully. “I guess it was closer to the surface than I thought. Stupid, because I get why it was necessary, intellectually. Emotionally is clearly a whole different ball game.”

“Anything happens, you come to me first. Okay?” I urge her. “Doesn’t fucking matter what it is, you come find me.” She tilts back her head and smiles up at me.

“I will.” She pushes off my lap, bends over to give me a quick peck on the lips, and hands me my coffee, before turning back to the kitchen. “I need coffee.”

So while she waits for hers to brew, I tell her about my conversation with Damian. By the time I’m ready to head up to the building site, she’s already completely immersed in Photoshop.

-

“Jim says the final electrical hookups can be done before the weekend,” I tell Isla, when I enter the trailer later that day.

“Seriously? That’s amazing. Does that mean we can get in there and start painting?”

“If we can get some space heaters going, then I guess. They still have to finish installing some of the plumbing hardware and hook up the furnace and air, but that won’t be done until the weekend. The guys have been pushing to get it signed off before Thanksgiving. They want to get home.”

“I can’t blame them. They’ve been here virtually nonstop for the past month and a half,” she points out. “You know what that means, right?” Her face lights up and I can’t help smile back. “We need to go paint shopping.”

She snickers when I dramatically roll my eyes.

“Fine. Grab your coat; we’ll go now. Get it over with.”

Isla slaps the lid down on her laptop and jumps up with a squeal.

“Grab the color chips,” she waves her hand at the counter. “I’ve marked them all with sticky notes of what goes where.” I grab the binder and follow her as she bounces out the door.

Like a kid.

Isla

I’m excited to go out.

I spent most of the day cooped up inside, dividing my time between photo edits, my search for a Bernese Mountain dog, and trying to make some sense of the image of the boy. The first two were fun; the latter gave me a headache and filled me with foreboding.

I’d found the stock image and used it as a guideline to lift off the segments that were altered on the emailed file. Eyes, hairline, lips and chin; those were different. I isolated them on a new layer, and pulled up a snapshot I took of Ben a while back. Just a quick picture taken one morning at the picnic table, but his face was fully turned to the camera. Then I started comparing details, and by the time I got to the eyes and found the same small gold fleck in the ice blue on the left side, I pretty much knew whoever it is used an actual picture of Ben.

Looking for puppies was a pretty good distraction after that.

“All set?” Ben asks, climbing in behind the wheel.

“I’ve got them all,” I tell him, waving the paint chips in his face. “Every room, and all the sizes marked.”

I’ve stayed away from the house for the most part, not wanting to get underfoot and maybe slowing things down, but I can’t wait to get in there and start doing something. Putting my own mark on it. I’m doing that with color.

“Any luck with the picture?” Ben asks, as we pull on to the road.

“Yeah. Some picture of you was used to alter the original. I created a separate file with all the parts; eyes, lips—the only thing that threw me was the chin, it was clean-shaven. When was the last time you shaved smooth?” Ben’s hand comes up as if by rote, scratching at the scruff he maintains there now.

“Can’t remember off hand. I’ll think about it. We should probably send that file to Damian’s guy. See if he can do anything with it.”

“Do you think we’re overreacting?” I ask carefully, but Ben still reacts sternly and instantly.

“No. Absolutely not,” he says, his hand squeezing my leg to underscore his words. “First and most importantly, whatever the fuck is going on, they’re picking on you. I don’t like that.” I shouldn’t smile, but I can’t help myself, it’s cute when he gets all protective and growly. “Next thing to consider is that over the last twenty some years, I’ve not exactly made good friends in some levels of society. Someone may have decided to get some payback. You never know.”

Well, that wipes the smile clear off my face. I don’t really have details on any of the work he’s done over the years, but judging by my involvement in his last undercover case, right here at the campground, it’s not without violence.

“Oh.” The single syllable comes out on a sigh and I can feel Ben’s eyes on my profile.

“Right,” he confirms, his hand finally easing up on my knee and now gently rubbing up and down my leg. “I’m not easy to find. We’re pretty much off the radar where we are,” he reassures me, but what he says raises another question.

“Is that why you were so eager to build there?”

He’s quiet at first, and when I look at him, his eyes are focused on the road but I can almost feel the wheels turning.

“In part,” he finally admits, casting a quick glance my way. “Don’t get me wrong, anywhere with you would’ve been good for me. But when the opportunity came along to put down stakes right there on the mountain, I wasn’t gonna let any grass grow under my feet. Living in a trailer during the summer is easy. In the winter, not so much.”

“True,” I concede, a little disappointed at the practical considerations, but I shake it off.

The rest of the drive is silent, although I can feel Ben glancing over every so often. When he pulls into a parking spot, around the corner from the hardware store, he turns off the engine and twists his body to face me.

“Not sure what thoughts are going around in there,” he says, tapping a finger to my forehead. “But fit this one in there; you are far from a convenience.”

“So now I’m an inconvenience?” I say, turning my head away. I’m not sure where that comes from, but it’s out before I can stop it. Petty, stress-induced word games. It’s childish and I’m immediately ashamed, but when I turn back, Ben’s already getting out of the car. “Ben...” I plead, scrambling to get out on my side when he throws his door shut.

I have to run to catch up with his long strides and manage to grab his arm right before he turns the corner.

“Stop. Hold on a sec.”

He turns around and I try to read his eyes, but his expression is impassive.

“That was just a dumb thing to say. I...”

“Ya think?” he counters with a snort, before grabbing my upper arms and pushing me with my back against the brick wall. “Trust, Isla,” he bites off between clenched teeth, his forehead almost touching mine. “You’ve gotta trust that what comes out of my mouth is exactly what I mean. No more, no less. Don’t project your insecurities on my intentions.” He lets go of my arms and takes a step back. “That’s a battle I can’t win for you.”

“Wait,” I call out, rushing after him when he starts walking away. My heart is in my throat and my stomach is doing flips, but that doesn’t stop me from launching myself at him, hanging on to his neck and burying my face there.

His arms catch me, just as I knew they would.

“I’m sorry. Please, let me be sorry,” I whisper in his ear like a mantra, ignoring the odd looks we’re getting in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Babe,” he rumbles, letting me slide down and peeling my arms from around his neck. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, Ben. I don’t know why I say shit like that,” I admit, close to tears.

“Stress,” he says, tagging me behind my neck and pulling my head into his chest, leaning his chin on top. “Both of us. We need to slow down.”

“Yes,” I mumble. His hand finds mine clenched in his jacket next to my face, and carefully untangles it, slipping his fingers between mine.

“Let’s get some paint,” he says, gently tugging me along.

Forty-five minutes later, we have twelve gallons of paint loaded in the back of the Toyota. Not enough, but a good start.

“Can we stop at the print shop?” I ask when Ben pulls out of the parking spot. “I need to pick up some new memory cards for the camera, and I want see if Nate has those prints ready I want to give the guys.”

It had been Ben’s idea, actually; when I mentioned wanting to do something for the guys as a thank you for their hard work, he’d suggested getting a print done for each of them. I ended up with pictures of each of the guys at work on the house. Some I already had, and some I went out and shot specifically. I sent the files over to Nate last week.

“Sure,” Ben says casually. “I’ll pick up something quick for dinner. Fast food okay?” I chuckle. From what he tells me, he existed on fast food most of his life, and gets a craving every now and then.

“Wendy’s is around the corner,” I point out.

“I know.” He turns to me with a grin before turning east on Main Street. “I’ll pick you up around the corner,” he says a few minutes later, dropping me off in front of Southwest.

Nate is busy with a customer when I walk in, so I have a look at the display of memory cards on the far counter. I have my selection made when I hear the door close and Nate walks up.

“They’re not done. The color wasn’t right,” he says by way of hello. “I’m running the print again tonight, after I close up, and will have them for you tomorrow afternoon. That okay?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll pop in tomorrow or the day after. We were just in the neighborhood, I thought I’d take a chance,” I explain, handing him the memory cards to ring up. “What do you think of the website?” I ask, following him to the cash register.

“Not bad,” he says. “It could do with a bit of tightening up, but you’ve got a bit of traffic going over it already.”

“Seriously?” I’m pleased as hell. I didn’t expect anyone to look unless I told them to. “How did they find it?”

“I made it a little more visible. Checked with Jen to see if we could link it to her website, and she checked with the gallery. Your link is up on both. People who visit the coffee shop, or the gallery, can easily find your work now.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing.

“Thank you so much. I never got that far.”

“I’ll get my buddy to look at the site itself. See if he can’t put a few moving graphics and some music on. Make it a bit more interactive. It’ll take off,” he says, handing me my change.

“I appreciate it, Nate. Why don’t you give me a call when the prints are ready?”

“Yup,” he answers, lifting just two fingers when I walk out the door.

I don’t expect Ben to be back yet, so I turn down Beech Street to pick up a bunch of large padded envelopes for the guys’ prints. I’m having them mounted the same way Nate did the prints for the gallery, on thin rigid board.

The post office isn’t that busy. I’m in and out pretty fast and walk back toward Main Street, keeping an eye out for Ben.

I’m just crossing the alley that runs parallel to the main thoroughfare, all along the downtown, when an engine revs to my left. All I see is a flash of white from the corner of my eye, and I instinctively throw myself forward, landing hard on my hands and knees. Behind me there’s a screech of tires, and when I turn my head, I can just see the back of a white sedan turning the corner at the post office.

“Are you okay?” An older man comes walking out of the barbershop and helps me to my feet, collecting the envelopes that flew from my hands when I fell.

“I’m okay,” I assure him. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He looks at me oddly as he hands me the envelopes.

“Not sure it was on you,” he says. “Saw that car speed off, they sure were in a hurry to get out of here.”

Of course Ben picks this moment to pull up beside us. I quickly thank the man and climb into the passenger seat.

“What happened?” he asks right away.

“I fell. Well, technically, I almost got hit by a car.” I can immediately feel the charge in the car as Ben’s eyes turn to slits.

“What?”

“I wasn’t looking,” I quickly explain. “All I saw was a white blur and I jumped. Nothing happened. The old guy came to help me up, that’s all.” Ben grabs for my hands and turns them over. My palms are a little scraped but nothing major.

“Anywhere else?” he snarls, sounding almost mad at me.

“I may have bruises on my knees tomorrow, but really, it’s no big deal,” I try to reassure him.

“You get hurt, it’s a big deal to me,” he grumbles, turning the key in the ignition.

“Smells good. Did you get fries?” Ben glares at me for a moment, before reaching into the back seat and pulling out a brown paper Wendy’s bag.

“Eat. But don’t think for one minute you’re distracting me.”