There was a pause. I couldn’t guess what he was thinking. Didn’t care.
I gave Myra the thumbs up signal and spun my finger in a circle, telling her I was headed out. She gave me a thumbs up, then strode over to meet with a reporter. The cameras were clicking, families were smiling, and little kids ran around like waist-high, bobble-antenna insects.
Behind them all, Mrs. Yates preened.
I made it to the Jeep and drove over to the Perky Perk.
The wind was nice, the sun warm, and it only took five minutes before Crow came strolling along, with a smile on his face like he’d been out sweet-talking the other kids into painting the fence.
“Delaney Reed,” he declared like we hadn’t seen each other in months. “How did the dinner go? Did your man love him some chicken?”
“He did.”
Crow slowed, dropped the hey-stranger act. He was suddenly my almost-uncle-god who had explained to the kids bullying me in kindergarten exactly what the insides of their bodies would look like on their outsides.
“Left arm or right?” He closed the distance with easy long strides.
“I— What?”
“Left arm or right?” He lifted each in turn, then stopped right in front of me. “Which one would you rather I break? On Ryder. Which of his arms?”
“You aren’t going to break either of his arms.”
“Legs? That’s a little hardcore. I mean it was good chicken, but I wouldn’t say it was the greatest ever made. Not worth two broken legs, but you’re the boss. I’ll do it near the hospital so the medics don’t have to go far to find him.”
“Don’t break my boyfriend. Any part of him. This isn’t going to get you out of being hauled in for that penguin debacle.”
“Me? I’m just a handsome, lonely artist—”
“Save it for Tinder. I know you dropped all those statues in her yard.”
“Do you have proof, NCIS?”
“I have a note in your handwriting left on her door.”
“Note?”
I opened it so he could read it. He leaned in, his hands behind his back. “That doesn’t look like my handwriting.”
I folded it back into my pocket. “All right. Let’s see your hands.”
“What?” He stuffed his hands in his jeans.
“Let me see your hands.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Hands. Now.”
He waited a moment longer, just to bother me, then held out his hands. His fingers were clean, scrubbed. When I’d seen him in the grocery store, there had been gray concrete-colored dust gathered around the nails.
“Did you pour them?”
“My hands?”
“Did you have molds? Flip them over.”
He flipped his hands. “Molds? What are you talking about?”
