But of course I couldn’t tell him what I’d done, the great sin he didn’t even know was what really drove him away. I choked out a laugh and pressed a finger into my snakebite scar, willing the old pain to distract me. When I allowed myself to look again, I found Everett staring. “What?” My tone came out sharper than intended.
He cocked his head. “I’m not allowed to look at you?”
God forgive me for my weakness. “Only if you tell me what you see.”
His slow unfurling smile was bittersweet. “The center of the world.”
I exhaled. “Ever—”
He started to move. Holding my gaze, he slid on his knees across the boat. I startled back, shoulders rising against the bow, and he stopped. What shone in his eyes was my own hesitation, mirrored back. My own hope.
My own longing.
He raised a hand to touch my face.
He doesn’t know.If he did, he would never touch you.
I turned my cheek. Ever’s hand dropped.
“I’m tired,” I said quietly. “Please take me home.”
He was silent for so long that I closed my eyes. Then the boat rocked as he climbed back to the other end. I heard him pick up the oars, heard them slap the water.
“I’m sorry, Ruth.” His voice was grave. “I promise, never again.”
26
NOW
I’m lying on my couch watching the sheer white curtains twist in the wind, thinking about Herman Blanchard, the disinherited son outlived by his father, when I hear the sound of car tires crunching the dirt road, so fast it can only be Everett.
The screen door bangs behind me as I bound barefoot across the lawn. His convertible slides to a stop, dust flying, and he leaps out of the car.
“It’s over.” I fling my arms around him. “Renard’s case is closed. We’re free.”
Ever folds me tightly against him. I press my face into his chest, breathing him in, feeling like I might sob from sheer relief. He cups my head, fingers catching in my hair, and rubs his other hand between my shoulder blades, the movement soothing. “What do you mean, we’re free?”
I pull back. His thick hair stands high from the wind, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. There’s white gauze wrapped around his bicep where he got grazed by the drug dealer’s bullet and something wild in his eyes. He hasn’t raced here to celebrate.
“The sheriff came to see me at the library. After everything, they’re ruling Renard’s death an accident. No one told you?”
Ever’s jaw tightens, but the look that flickers across his face isn’t surprise. Why isn’t he shocked?
“I don’t understand,” I say, still holding his waist. “Whether or not they investigated our tip, what would make them change their minds so radically?”
His fingers move down my spine. “Frankly, I don’t care. I say let’s just take the pardon. It’s perfect, actually. I came here to—”
“Ever.” If Sheriff Theriot hasn’t gone to see him, he doesn’t know the other half. “The sheriff was asking questions about you and Herman.”
His brows knit together. “Herman Blanchard? What did he say?”
“Something about Herman being locked inside his garage, and then he asked if you ever had any involvement with the Blanchard family.”
His eyes move over my shoulder into the distance. “I can’t believe he had the gall to ask you that.”
“Hey.” I place my palms flat against his chest. “I’ve watched this town scapegoat people my whole life. I won’t let them do it to you.”
“Listen, Ruth. Forget about Herman. I came to tell you I’m leaving.”
