So, as August had eased into September, as the nights had turned cooler and the kids being in school had brought a different rhythm to the town, I’d found I was really good at finally cleaning out my grandparents’ stuff from the attic above the garage, sorting it into a manageable pile of memorabilia, and a much larger bunch of furniture and shit that Marci had helped me cart off and donate to the charity rummage sale for the PumpkinFest.
I was good at working until my eyes bled, trying to track down what leads we had to find the missing camper— who seemed, indeed, to be really missing, given that he hadn't contacted his family — and covering shifts for Constantine, who seemed to be out sick more than he was working these days, which was a worry of itsown.
I was good at ignoring Reggie’s countless calls and replying with terse, negative answers when he’d texted to reschedule our date, even though the poor guy couldn’t help being apotato.
What I was not good at, though, was ignoring Everett Maior. He’d become a fucking squatter in my brain, and I wanted to evicthim.
I pulled on jeans, a t-shirt, and a Henley, along with my hiking boots, then made a slow walk down the driveway to start my truck. While the blowers took care of the early-morning condensation on the windshield, I looked back at my house and for maybe the first time ever, I reallysawit.
It was a small house — a Cape Cod style, with white-painted shingles, black shutters, and dormer windows peeking out of the sharply slanted roof that my grandfather had built by hand back in the 50s. It had a white picket fence surrounding it on two sides, and a giant sugar maple out front that my grandmother planted right after my father was born. If you didn’t know the history of the place, though, maybe it’d be easy to assume it was hopelessly traditional. Mired in the past. I wondered what Ev saw when he looked atO’Leary.
God.
I was disgustingly into this guy, and I wasneverthisway.
Evict. Exterminate. Nomás.
I pulled into a spot outside of Goode’s and physically restrained myself from looking two doors down at O’Leary Hardware. Wherever Ev was and whatever he was doing, it was none of mybusiness.
I yanked open the diner door a little more roughly than I’d intended and stepped inside. Dare was already there, and he stood up to wave me over to his booth in theback.
I couldn’t help but smile as I got closer. The man looked like he’d walked out of a sporting-goods catalog. His dark brown hair was perfectly combed, and the sharp blade of his jaw was perfectly smooth — nothing less would do for Darius Turner. He wore a light-blue wool-blend t-shirt, ancient khaki cargo pants —the kind that would dry in ten seconds — and a huge, black hiking watch strapped to hiswrist.
“What’s up, man?” he said, giving me a brief hug before sitting down again, facing thedoor.
“I love the look,” I told him, sliding onto the bench opposite him. “It’s very Boy-Scout-Den-Master-Daddy.”
He looked down at his t-shirt, pulling it away from his body, and lifted an eyebrow at me. “It’shiking gear. Why do you always have to make it soundkinky?”
I shrugged and bit the inside of my cheek. “Some of us manage to hike in our sneakers and t-shirts, that’s all I’m saying. Low-key, youknow?”
“Yeah, and it’s low-key people like you who make my life hell,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at me across the table. “Getting hypothermia and breaking your ankles in thebackwoods.”
This argument was as old and familiar as the bacon-coffee scent of Goode’s, and I hadn’t realized how badly I needed to ground myself in thisreality.
“I mean, if youneedthe gear, by all means wear it,” I allowed. “It’s just that some of us are… natural woodsmen, I guess?” I blinked innocently. “We don’t need all the extra accessories to do thejob?”
“Well, as it turns out, that’s really convenient,” Dare said. He grinned broadly. “Because I have just the job for a natural woodsman such asyourself.”
“I knew it!” I gasped in mock-outrage. “I knew you wouldn’t offer to treat me to breakfast fornothing.”
“First off,” Dare laughed. “I didn’t offer to treat you. And second…” He paused as Shane Goode stopped by our table with a pair of mugs and a carafe of coffee. “Oh. Hey,Shane.”
“Dare. Si.” Shane nodded and a strand of long, dark hair escaped the short ponytail at the back of his neck to fall across his face. “How’s itgoing?”
“Pretty well,” I said as Shane filled my mug and then Dare’s. “Except Dare’s about to rope me into afavor.”
Dare sighed. “The kind of favor that’s actually his job, so don’t feel too bad for him.” At Shane’s puzzled frown, Dare explained, “We had a camper go missing a couple of weeks back. I’m sure you heard about it. We’re heading up a little searchparty.”
Shane nodded. “Oh yeah. I heard. Kid from Philly, staying up at Frank’splace?”
“That’s the one,” Dareagreed.
“Karen Mitchener says he was murdered,” Shane saiddubiously.
I groaned and rubbed my forehead. “Karen says a lot of things,” I reminded him. “There is absolutely no evidence to indicate that.Okay?”
“Yeah.” Shane gave me a relieved smile. “Yeah,okay.”
