Chapter Fifteen
Nicki’s heart rose in her chest—a fluttering, foolish thing—as she spied Miah’s truck in the ranch’s front lot. He was often out and about around the range as part of his daily duties, but if that vehicle was parked at the house, the chances were good that so was he.
It was her break, and her patrol route had legitimately taken her out to this side of Fortuity. It wouldn’t be weird to stop by, right? Not too eager, she assured herself as she headed toward the porch steps. Not unless she’d read his signals way wrong last night, and she trusted she hadn’t.
She rang the bell, smoothed her uniform’s shirt behind her belt, ran her tongue over her teeth.
Footsteps.
Her heart raced, thump thump thump, then stumbled a beat when the door swung in and Miah’s mom appeared.
“Deputy, good afternoon. Come in.” Though her smile and voice were cordial, they were strained as well—she’d registered Nicki in the same second Nicki had registered her. Christine was expecting an update, a breakthrough, her hopes and worries charged in a flash.
Nicki stepped into the hall. She wouldn’t lead the woman on a moment longer than necessary. “Hi, Christine. No news, I’m afraid. Not about the case.”
“Oh.” The door shut with a soft huff. “That’s all right. I wasn’t really expecting any.”
Fuck, that about broke Nicki’s already mixed-up heart. “I just came by on my break—I was patrolling out along the highway. Thought I’d say hello.” To Miah. Though she was fond of Christine as well. It wasn’t a hardship to visit with her, even if it wasn’t exactly the secret makeout session she’d been gunning for.
“How have you been, Nicki? Oh, would you like a coffee? There’s a fresh pot just brewed, and I could stand a break myself.” Christine’s demeanor had changed, gone warm and nearly easy, if not for some vague, strange quality Nicki couldn’t place. Miah didn’t tell her we’re . . . No, doubtful. She was just being paranoid.
“I’d love a coffee. Thanks.” Nicki followed her into the sunny kitchen.
Christine plucked a mug from a cabinet. “Cream and two sugars.”
“How’d you guess?” Nicki joked. The number of coffees she’d drunk in this kitchen, the number of somber, sympathetic conversations, so maddeningly devoid of closure for this family . . .
Christine handed over the cup then fixed one for herself.
“Thank you. Is Miah around?” She sounded casual, she thought. Not suspicious at all. Probably. Hopefully.
Christine shook her head, taking a seat at the long table and blowing on her own steaming mug. “He took a half day. Some project or other.”
“Oh.”
“Good for him,” Christine added. “He’s been working the most ridiculous hours. I know I’m one to talk, but the boy needs sleep. And a social life,” she added, her smile a funny little thing that Nicki couldn’t quite ID.
Would a sex life suffice? Nicki took a seat on the opposite side of the table. “I saw his truck out front. I’d hoped I might catch you both,” she fibbed.
“He took his bike.”
“Ah.” Of course.
“And how’s your day going?”
Nicki shrugged. “Not bad. Nobody’s addressed me with a slur or threatened me any bodily harm, so I can’t complain.”
Christine smiled grimly, eyebrows rising. “They can be charming around these parts, can’t they? When I first moved here . . . Well, let’s just say my late husband was a sought-after commodity, romantically speaking. And there was more than one local girl only too happy to shoot me dirty looks for being the one he wound up with.”
“Us brown girls don’t get much credit, do we?”
Christine rolled her eyes. “In a county as white as a christening gown? Not much. Though in time I’ve come to feel accepted, or close to it. I hope you will, too.”
If I’m even here in six months, sure. “Me too.”
“How’s your son doing? What grade’s he in now?”
“Sixth.” Nicki gave her the bleak broad strokes.
Christine nodded, smiling again. “I knew he’d been by as punishment. Wish I could’ve seen him mucking out the stalls.”
“You and me both.” She sipped her coffee, registering in that moment how tired she was. Wonder why.
“I can remember Miah doing the same at Matty’s age,” Christine said. “Though by then he was a seasoned pro, of course.”
Nicki perked up at that, confirming to herself what a goner she truly was. “Oh yeah?”
“All he ever wanted was to be a part of the ranch, no matter how dirty the job. He idolized the hands, at Matty’s age. Didn’t care if that meant the most thankless chores.”
“He must have idolized his dad, too.”
“Sure. When he was tiny, and again when the novelty of manual labor wore off some,” Christine said, smirking. “Though to be fair, Miah’s always been more of a cowboy than a businessman. His father was, too, in his heart, but Miah’s not built for paperwork and client calls. Though he does his duty.”
Nicki thought of last night, of Miah’s professed aversion to sex in the not-so-great indoors. He’d been amazing nonetheless, but the notion had her wondering, had he merely been “doing his duty” upstairs in that guest room, making the most of an un-ideal situation? It made her wonder further, what would he be like if she just acquiesced, submitted to whatever seduction best suited the man? She shivered, covering the tiny tremor with a deep drink of her coffee.
“He works hard,” she allowed. “No doubt of that. Nice to hear he took some time for himself for a change.”
“It is.” Christine crossed her arms atop the table. Nicki bet she had five years on her own mother, but she seemed far younger—the work of her capable physique and good skin, and that palpable energy that surrounded all workaholics.
Christine said, “He and Vince and a couple other friends keep a garage space downtown, for working on their bikes. Two-to-one odds that’s where he’s got to. I hope so, anyhow. Miah’s got so little fun in his life just now. Or maybe I should say, he’s making so little room for it since . . . you know.”
“Sure. I was the same after my dad passed.”
She nodded solemnly.
“In any case, I’m glad I missed him,” Nicki lied. “It’s nice to imagine he’s enjoying a squandered afternoon to himself.”
“Did you have lunch?” Christine asked, standing up straight.
“No. I need to head to the station; I’ll swing by the diner on the way if I have time.” Or, more likely, buy a Clif Bar from the break room vending machine and overdo it on the coffee.
“I was about to make myself a sandwich,” Christine said. “I roasted a chicken last night—there’s loads of leftovers if you’d like to make one for yourself.”
Nicki’s stomach growled. She couldn’t honestly think of anything that sounded more delicious than a cold chicken sandwich.
Christine pounced on her hesitation, on her feet at once and pulling the fridge door open. “I’ll take your silence as a yes,” she said, setting a Tupperware container on the counter, followed by a jar of mayo and a bottle of mustard, a salad spinner. “Bread’s in the cupboard above the toaster.”
Nicki found a loaf of sourdough and grabbed a cutting board from beside the sink.
“I hope you won’t mind if I eat it on the road,” Nicki said.
“Not at all.” Christine assembled her sandwich and set a length of waxed paper at Nicki’s elbow. “Excuse me one second.”
“Sure.” Nicki stacked spinach leaves atop an ambitious pile of chicken and smeared mayo on a slice of bread, squeezing the overstuffed creation together as Christine reappeared.
“I’ll get you a bag.” She busied herself at the hutch while Nicki wrapped her sandwich.
“This takes me back,” Christine said with a soft smile, taking Nicki’s sandwich and sliding it into a paper bag for her. “Miah hasn’t let me pack him a lunch since he was about twelve, but his father never minded.”
“No?”
Christine grabbed a couple napkins from the holder on the table. “Every morning, practically.”
“You must see him a hundred times a day,” Nicki said, “everywhere you look.” She’d had countless quiet, frank conversations like this with Christine; she knew she wasn’t being too familiar.
“Everywhere,” she agreed. “When I least expect it. And you know . . .”
“Yeah?”
Christine looked up, black eyes weary and looking so exactly like her son’s. “I don’t mind it,” she said, her smile a little stronger now.
“No?”
“At first, every reminder was a slap. But as time goes by, it’s subtle little things that come to me. Details I could’ve so easily forgotten. Mundane things. Now whenever a new one comes, I try to write it down. I know it’s not the same as when a child loses a parent. I’m not scared of forgetting him, obviously. But sometimes one of those tiny nothing memories comes to me . . . some detail so small I quit noticing them decades ago.”
“Like?”
“Like, I’ll be in the bathroom first thing, and I’ll go to grab the sponge and wipe the stubble out of the sink. And of course there isn’t any now. But it’s muscle memory. For the past forty years, that little mess was always there. Every day. When I was twentysomething and a newlywed, it annoyed me. I’d think, how does he not notice he leaves this mess every damn morning, you know?”
Nicki smiled. “I do know. Very well.” Her ex had done the same thing, and, she suspected, Matty would, too, in time. One of those oblivious male transgressions, like leaving their dirty underwear on the floor next to the hamper instead of inside it.
“But by the time we’d been married a few years, I knew it was a waste of time even caring, so I just wiped it out every morning, same as I’d brush my teeth or put on face cream. But now . . .” Christine sighed, gaze moving to the windows that ran above the sink.
“You’d give anything,” Nicki guessed, “to perform that thankless chore one more time.”
“Exactly.” Christine looked back to her. “Thanks for listening. And for even knowing what the heck I mean.”
“My pleasure.”
“I won’t keep you,” Christine said, seeming to snap back into her default, efficient mode. She held the paper bag out. “I’m glad you stopped by.”
“Me too.” It wasn’t the midday rendezvous Nicki had been hoping for, but she wasn’t disappointed. “Thanks for lunch.”
“You bet. Will you forgive me if I don’t walk you out? I ought to scarf this down at my desk,” she said, picking up her plate. “I’ve got a call in twenty minutes.”
“I think I can find my way. Tell Miah I came by?”
“Of course. Take care, Nicki.”
“You too.”
Nicki let herself out and opened the lunch bag once she was in her cruiser, spreading the waxed paper open. Her mouth watered and she dug for the napkins, her fingertips finding something unexpected—something smooth amidst the rustle of paper. A Ziploc bag. For a moment she fantasized it held some other enticing leftover surprise—a cookie—perhaps, but it was weightless as she slid it out. Or nearly.
“Oh. Ohhh . . .”
Her earrings. Two silver ginkgo leaves, glinting there in the plastic bag.
Where had she even left these? She racked her brain. The coffee table. Fuck. It was one thing if Christine had walked in on them hanging out, watching a movie. That was just what friends did. But why on earth would friends need to remove their earrings while sharing a couch . . . ?
No polite reason.
Sadly, she and Miah were exactly that—friends. Friends who’d gotten very, very personal last night, but merely friends, at the end of the day. She knew that as a fact, and she kept it close at hand, because if she didn’t she’d lose track of herself.
“Why did you give me these?” she muttered, setting the baggie and sandwich and her appetite aside. She started her engine. Why not leave the earrings where they’d been?
Because she approves.
And perhaps because Christine had them about pegged. This bit of motherly sabotage said, I know, and I don’t mind, and while I’m not going to make a big deal of it, it pleases me to make you squirm. It was sweet, in its way, Nicki supposed, turning onto the highway. Sweet but misguided.
She kept her eyes on the road. “Just don’t get your hopes up, honey.”
* * *
Oren left his office and headed outside, unlocking his car with a bloop. He set a couple cases in the back seat, then with a quick glance around the quiet parking lot, he felt around in the crack between the cushions. His fingers found plastic, and he fished the phone out and gave its home button a poke.
1 new message
His body bucked. He’d expected nothing, and to find anything, frankly, was always unnerving, given that only one person had this number. His finger was shaky as he opened the messaging app.
Need a quick word. Will call on the hour until I reach you.
No missed calls, and it was five of one, now. Oren checked the text—sent just twenty minutes earlier. At least he hadn’t kept his contact waiting—the guy was enough of a blowhard when he was in a good mood.
His clammy hand was making the phone slick so he dropped it into his shirt pocket and went to sit in the driver’s seat. He twisted his wedding band around and around on his finger as he waited, thinking about Justine.
Some days he wanted to tell her everything. Tell her what he’d gotten mixed up in, if only for the relief of sharing it with another human being. Tell her so maybe she’d order him to go to the cops, or tell him that they needed to run away from here, or whatever a rational person would say, because Oren couldn’t guess. He wasn’t a rational man anymore. He wanted to tell her so at least she’d know why he’d had to go on a prescription sleep aid and antidepressants in the past six months, and so she’d stop asking—stop worrying—if it was anything to do with her.
But he couldn’t. His contact had him by the shorthairs, had already used Justine against him. Things could only get worse if he made her complicit. And if he turned himself in, who would be there to protect her?
Protect her? Ha. If it weren’t for Oren, she wouldn’t be in any danger at all. What the hell was wrong with him? Who had he become?
It wasn’t my fault. I never had a choice. He’d never even wanted the money, not really, not for more than the few fatal seconds it had taken him to hesitate when his contact had made the proposal. Even if he hadn’t taken the bait in that moment, showed himself for the man he truly was . . . Well, the threats would’ve come anyway, wouldn’t they? At least the way things were going now, he stood a chance at getting rich. Not much of a consolation for his soul, but it was a lot of money. Enough to move far, far away and never have to think of Fortuity or his terrible mistake ever again.
The phone rang, making him jump nearly high enough to hit the roof. He fumbled it out of his pocket and hit accept.
“I’m here.”
“Oren, my boy—just checking that you got around to making that appointment.”
“I did. Next Friday afternoon.”
“Excellent, excellent. By golly, I think I feel some bad news coming on, don’t you? Such a shame.”
He rankled. “Indeed.”
“Right, well, that’s all I was wondering. I must be going. Busy day, busy day.”
“That’s fine. I’ll talk to you after the appointment.”
“That you will.” The line went dead.
Oren pocketed the phone once more and laid his forehead on the steering wheel, rolling it back and forth, back and forth, a migraine brewing. He could have texted me if that’s all he wanted. Oh, but it wasn’t. He wanted to make Oren sweat to boot, and it had worked. Christ, he’d soon be adding fraud to his growing list of crimes, it would seem.
But what’s the alternative? He knew what that man was capable of, and he wouldn’t take any chances, not where Justine was concerned. Obedience was the wisest plan. Stay the course, keep her safe, make her rich, then get her the fuck away from this place.
Though in dark moments, Oren couldn’t help but wonder . . . Would he ever see a dime, for all his suffering? Or would he discover that he simply knew too much the moment his usefulness came to an end?