I watch her reflection in the mirror. Interesting that he’s the only one she mentions. She studiously chops at my hair like she’s performing heart surgery and does not look up at me, even though it’s clear she can feel me watching her.
“Or Cole or Seth,” I say.
Izzy’s body relaxes at the suggestion, then shrugs. “Cole was a good high school friend, but I don’t see him as anything more. Seth’s not my type.”
It takes more effort than I thought to name the last LaSalle boy. Izzy is beautiful and kind, and more importantly, she seems content to stay in Sagebrush. I gulp against the sudden bad taste in my mouth.
“And of course…we can’t forget Logan.”
She pats my shoulder. “Oh, Sierra, who do you take me for? I know he belongs to you.”
“He doesn’t…” I begin weakly.
“Okay, you may not think that, buthedoes. I could tell the minute you guys walked in that he is still pining after you.”
It should alarm me. I don’t want to break his heart—it’s why I suggested a no-strings-attached relationship to begin with. But, for some reason, warmth spreads through me at the thought of him pining for me.
God, I’m a narcissistic psychopath.
“Anyway, LaSalle boys aside, I’ve actually started seeing this new guy whose name starts with an H. We’ve been dating for a few weeks now.”
The ladies ooh over that.
When my hair is done, all of them give me one more bone-crushing hug before I leave.
When I step out of the hair salon, my hair feels shinier and silkier than it has ever felt. My whole being feels shinier and silkier than ever before too.
Twenty Three
Logan
I take a minute to lean against the side of the salon, watching the ladies inside pamper Sierra. It’s heartwarming to see.
“Logan LaSalle,” a voice greets me.
I look up, internally grimacing. If given a choice, I’d never see Rick Dawson’s shaved-bald head and pasty, bloated face ever again.
“Loitering?” His words are teasing, but his expression and tone are not. He’s wearing his navy town marshal uniform and gold badge, so he must be here for official law enforcement reasons.
“I’m waiting for someone.” I think about leaving it at that.
I don’t like Rick Dawson. I will never forgive him for how he handled Sierra’s disappearance. Marshal Dawson and his deputies were so ineffective at times that I wondered whether they were actively hindering the case just becauseI was pushing too hard for answers. Dawson told me over a quarter of a million women and girls go missing in the US every year, implying that Sierra, as one of hundreds of thousands, wasn’t worth the effort I was demanding, but merely another stat in the hopeless fight against crime.
My family and I ended up taking over, acting as detectives and search-and-rescue teams to try to solve what happened to Sierra, all without help from our local law enforcement. Ethan came home on the weekends to use his deputy skills to interview her neighbors and others who may have seen her, while Cole and Emily spoke to kids at school to see if any of them knew anything. Seth and I combed the mountain, rock by rock, while my parents visited homeless shelters and posted her picture at local grocery stores and gas stations.
But despite our best efforts, it wasn’t until we found Blackstone’s cave and were able to hire that PI that we learned that she was alive. Even still, we were the ones to find her, not him.
The memory of his weaponized incompetence spurs me to say something. “I’m waiting for Sierra Howard,” I say.
He tilts his head. Something flickers in his eyes, but it’s too fast to read.
“Is that so?” he finally says, his tone even. “I hadn’t realized she was back.”
“Yep. Alive and well. No thanks to you.”
He narrows his eyes. “Glad to hear it,” he says crisply. “What have you got there?” He nods toward the flyers tucked under my arm. “Does that say Futon Drift?”
“Oh.” I peel one loose and show him. “Futon Drift will be playing an acoustic concert in the Blackstone Cave.”
