Red's face flashes through my mind—his laugh, the garage, the way he calls me over to look at an engine and ruffles my hair when I get something right.
"Yes. It's a nickname."
"And?"
"And nothing."
"Come on." She turns to face me. "I told you about the worst night of my life. You won't even tell me how you got your name?"
She's been pacing for hours—can't write, can't read, trapped in this cottage with nowhere to go and nothing to do except ask me questions I don't want to answer.
I give her a crumb.
"A friend gave it to me." The words scrape out. "I'm good with engines."
She tilts her head. "A club friend?"
"No."
She waits, the writer in her hungry for more.
Silence.
My phone buzzes again.
Nova this time. Following up on the rental car. Driver checked into a motel in Madison. Probably nothing, but Ash is keeping eyes on it.
I slip it back in my pocket.
"Who keeps texting you?"
"Club business."
"Right." Her jaw tightens. "Club business."
She goes back to wearing a track in the floor. I go back to failing not to watch her—frustration written all over her face, flushed and fierce.
I need to get out of this room, but I can't, so I do the next best thing—grab my tools and start sanding the cabinet doors. They've needed it for months, and it's a good enough excuse to keep my hands busy and my eyes off her.
"You're seriously going to sand cabinets right now?"
"Doors are sticking."
"So you're just going to ignore me and sand things?"
I don't answer, just focus on the wood grain, the rhythm of the sandpaper, anything to stop looking at her—at the collar of my shirt sliding off her shoulder, at the soft skin underneath.
She makes a sound of frustration and keeps moving, back and forth, back and forth.
My phone buzzes a third time.
Crow. Rental car driver is a woman. Mid-fifties. Here for a funeral. False alarm.
I tuck it away.
"Let me guess." Her voice has gone sharp. "Club business."
"False alarm. The car was nothing."
