Tap.
“I appear to have a surplus of sitters,” I say.
She grins. “Use them.” A pause. “Use them to laugh, too. Laughter keeps pain from building a nest.”
“I’ll try.” I escort her to the hall and watch her exchange a low word with Atticus. The two of them talk in clean, practical sentences. It calms me in a way I used to be worried about.
By the time I’m back in the bedroom, the house has settled into a softer rhythm. The island sun is kind through the curtains. Zeus is a warm weight at my feet, his cast sticking out like an accusation against the world and a badge of honor. I scratch his chest and he sighs, satisfied.
The tablet sits on the nightstand where I left it. I power it on—habit—and stare at the blank home screen. I think about the face in my head. His clean shoes. Neat cuffs. A thin scar by the ear. Bored money voice.
I need to get his face out of my head.
I remember reading about a sketch artist in Savannah months ago when I stumbled across an article about a local court case that ended up garnering national popularity. Her illustrations were incredibly detailed, but despite her talent, the artist was almost hermetic in her discretion.
That’s what I need.
I can’t reach her from this tablet. I can’t make any calls or texts from this tablet. The limitation is both a protection and an irritation. I know why I can’t access the internet or email or scroll Pinterest or do any number of other things I want to do…but it’s still annoying because right now all I want is my freedom and everything to go back to normal.
I find Atticus in the den, which we have turned into a planning room without losing the view of the marsh. He sits with a mug near his elbow and a notepad open, his shoulders loose in a way they only get when we’ve indulged in each other. He looks up and takes off his glasses, pushing back from the table.
“I just thought of something,” I say, stopping in the vee of his legs. One hand comes to curl around the back of my thigh, squeezing gently. “There’s a sketch artist in town I heard about before. She’s independent—no police contracts, which is good if Danner wasn’t working alone. She has a reputation for listening more than talking. If we can get her here, I can put a face on paper.”
Atticus is quiet for a beat. He doesn’t correct me or try to tell me that he has a dozen digital methods.
“What’s her name?” he asks.
“Junia Wolfe.”
Atticus nods once. “I’ll find her.”
“I don’t want her dragged into a mess,” I say. “I want her paid and safe and hopefully a picture of the man responsible for all this shit.”
“She will be,” he says. “And if she says no, we will respect it and not force her. But most people say yes when the problem is human and the solution is money.”
I let out a breath I did not know I was holding. “Thank you.”
Maverick appears in the doorway with a bowl of cut peaches and a stack of warm toast on a plate. “I heard the wordpeachesin the kitchen,” he lies cheerfully. “So I made them.”
“I didn’t say peaches,” I say. “Why are you always trying to feed me?”
“Your soul said peaches,” he says, and sets the plate in front of me like a prize. “Screamed it really. So… Eat. Then we take Zeus to the deck so he can impress the gulls with his cast.”
I pick up a slice of toast, add a peach, and take a bite. It is simple and sweet and warm. I almost cry for no reason that makes sense. Maverick sees it happen and does not say a word. He leans on the table and steals a peach from the bowl with two fingers as if he has done it every day of his life.
“Junia Wolfe,” he repeats, like tasting a name. “That’s a good name.”
“It fits,” I say.
Atticus writes the name in neat block letters at the top of the pad.
“Where’s Con?” I ask, glancing toward the hall. He has hovered near me all morning without hovering too close, but he’s been absent for a while now.
“He’s outside,” Atticus says. “On the back stairs.”
The back stairs are narrow and always a little cool. They lead down to the sandy path that belongs more to marsh grass than to people. I step out and find him sitting on the top step, head bowed, hands linked loosely between his knees. The sun catches on the short hair at the back of his neck. He looks up when the door clicks, and for once I do not see strain first. I see relief that I came to find him.
“I told Atticus about a sketch artist,” I say, easing down beside him. “Junia Wolfe.”
