“Sad? Why would they make me sad?

“They were your momma’s favorites. That’s why she made the tape. Back when she was getting sober, she’d listen to it every night before bed. Said it calmed her heart some, especially when she was still jittery from the withdrawals.”

“I see.”

“Dammit. Now I made you sad. Want me to put something else on?”

“No, I’m not sad. It’s nice. Leave it. I just . . .”

“Just what?”

“Do you think we didn’t talk about her as much as we wanted to because we thought we’d have to talk about everything that came after?”

“Your mom, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“I take it your dad didn’t talk about her much?” He flips a steak, his lack of a direct answer an answer in itself.

“Why would he? Weren’t they getting divorced?”

“Meh. It wasn’t the first time she’d walked out on him. They might have patched things up again. For your sake.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Why didn’t you marry my grandmother?”

“Luanne didn’t want to get married.”

“Did you?”

“Nope. It was kinda perfect. When we weren’t rocking each other’s world in the bedroom, we went off and did our own thing. We were married on the weekends, she liked to say. Any more than that and I would’ve gotten in the way of her reading.”

She laughs.

He smiles at the grill. “Has there been anyone, Charley?”

“Anyone what?”

“You know, anyone intimate. Any relationships.” He casts a glance at the driveway. At Luke, she realizes. Maybe he’s trying to assess her vulnerabilities in the area of romance so he can keep Luke from exploiting them.

“I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I wasn’t, but OK.”

“No relationships.”

From those two answers, he can probably put two and two together and figure out she lost her virginity to a man she didn’t know all that well.

She can’t even remember the guy’s name; he’d used friendly chitchat and long, inviting stares to pick her up at a rest stop during her grave-site tour. He was handsome enough, but also nervous, a little distracted, and disheveled, like he wasn’t used to picking up strange women in a Denny’s, or he had a life he was obligated to get back to soon, and what he was about to do with her didn’t quite fit. He knew what he was doing, and he’d been patient with her, mixing plenty of casual, relaxing conversation with his slow, studied exploration of her body. More important, there’d been no ring on his finger and no tan line where he might have removed one. Of course, she’d only been able to confirm the second detail after he’d fallen asleep next to her in bed.

Only later did she realize the crazy, reckless irony of going home with a man she’d met in a Denny’s, given her past and the nature of her road trip. That might have been part of why she did it; the combination of being on the road, with her new name and her new wad of cash, made her temporarily fearless. Or maybe her past was exactly why she’d felt safe enough to do it; how often does lightning strike twice in the same place?

“Where’d you go?” Marty asks.

“Sorry.”

“Memories?”

“Something like that.”

“Is it the music? You sure you don’t want me to change it?”

“No. No, not at all.”

“I guess I just thought it would be appropriate.”

“How’s that?”

Marty transfers three of the steaks to an empty plate. Turns to face her again. “Well, she’s why you’re doing it, right? Your mother, I mean. This plan of yours, it’s for her, isn’t it?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Don’t let me put words in your mouth.”

“No, I just . . . I didn’t think about it that way; that’s all. Is that why you’re gonna help? For my mom?”

Marty eyes the guests chatting in the driveway, making sure they’re out of earshot, she assumes. “Truth be told, I’m helping you because I loved your grandmother more than I loved anyone in the world. I’ve picked people up out of the gutter. But I’ve never seen someone put herself back together the way she did after she lost you two. Now I see more of her in you every day since you came back. So my plan, if you’d like to know, is to do whatever it takes to keep you from going away again. Even if it means hanging out while you make choices that have me messing my shorts like a baby who ate chili.”

Her vision had been starting to get tear blurred right up until Marty got to that last line. Now she’s laughing so hard she’s coughing. She drowns it with a swallow of beer. It empties the bottle.

“Another soda?” she asks.

“Sure thing.”

Inside, she’s got both hands full and is headed for the door when she sees her notebook sitting on Marty’s desk. Foolish of her to leave it out in the open like that, with all the company outside.

During two marathon sessions, she’d managed to pump out about sixty handwritten pages. Some of the memories came out fragmented, more like parts of an outline, and some, like the most recent ones, are crystal clear.

She sets the beer and the soda down next to the love seat, picks up the notebook, and starts scanning the trailer for a secure place to stash it.

Just then the door opens, and there’s Luke.

In the trailer’s harsh overhead light, his jeans look freshly ironed, and she can see she was right: it really is one of his best dress shirts. Navy blue with a red polo pony and white buttons. There’s a spot, right where the top two buttons are undone, that she shouldn’t focus on for too long, a spot that lets her know he keeps his chest hair trimmed to a manicured stubble.

“Howdy,” he says.

“Howdy?”

“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.