“You don’t have to,” I said. “It’s still early. You didn’t check the soccer scores.”
“Yeah, I’m suddenly tired.” He stood too fast, knees bumping the coffee table with a dull knock. He took two steps toward thekitchen before stopping himself, dragging a hand through his hair, leaving it rumpled. “I’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, some stuff at the shop. A new order’s coming in early in the morning.”
Why was he lying to me? He didn’t restock boards this time of year. Not when he was about to head into winter months. From November to March, he was only open part time. No one bought boards in the winter.
“Grady, are you okay? You’re acting weird. Did that story upset you?”
He looked at me for a moment, indecision in his eyes. “Why would it?”
“I don’t know. You’re acting like it does, that’s all.” I couldn’t imagine what would make him react this way to a man he didn’t even know. “Have you been following this story?”
Again, with the hand through his gold curls. “I mean, not really. It was hard to miss, though, right? The story was everywhere.”
“Yes, it was. I followed it pretty closely when it all came out. Those poor women really broke my heart. But I always got the feeling you didn’t really pay attention to anything that happened in Hollywood.”
“I don’t.” His eyes seemed glassy, like hazel rocks under a river’s stream. “But, hey, I’ve got to run.”
I stood, setting my glass aside, wishing I could reach for him and make him tell me what was going on in that head of his. “Thanks again for staying with the kids.”
He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “Anytime.”
“Text me when you get home?”
“Sure, yeah,” Grady said. “Shouldn’t take me long.”
I stood, unsure whether to close the distance or give him space. “Please, let me know if I can help. With whatever this is.”He had never once in the history of our friendship left abruptly. Sometimes he even slept over on the couch if we stayed up too long talking or watching a movie.
“Thanks.” Grady gave me a sad smile and then paused at the door, his hand resting on the knob a beat too long. His shoulders sagged just slightly, like he was too exhausted to walk down the stairs. But I knew better. Grady Nash never tired physically. He was in terrific shape. It was an emotional burden. I just didn’t know what it was. And I didn’t care for the feeling. At all.
He turned back for one last glance. “Sorry, Esme. ‘Night.”
He was gone before I could answer back. The door clicked shut, the sound echoing through the apartment. I stood, flabbergasted, staring at the empty space where he’d been.
Finally, I picked up the remote and turned on the television. The broadcast had already moved on, but I switched to another news station until I found the story again. I listened carefully, but there was nothing I hadn’t already heard.
I finished my wine while I switched to yet another news station talking about the story, my mind racing. Had Grady known one of the women who accused Hale? Was that his connection to it? But if that were the case, why hadn’t he ever shared it with me? Now that I thought about it, Grady didn’t talk much about his past. I knew he grew up in L.A., spending every minute he could surfing off the coast of Malibu. He’d gone to college at UCLA and had gotten a business degree. He’d tried corporate life, but had decided he’d rather be at the beach doing what he loved, so he’d moved here.
But his behavior tonight begged the question—how much did I really know about him? No, that was ridiculous. I spent more time with him than anyone but my kids. He might not talk a lot about his past, but, then, neither did I. Grady might be a mainstream type of man, but he was steady and loyal, even if he lived in a hut on the beach.
I brushed my teeth and washed my face, convinced that he had some connection to one of the victims. Maybe Robbie could help me figure out if that were true. I’d ask him in the morning, I decided, as I drifted off to sleep.
The next morning,Madison was already up when I wandered into the kitchen, cereal box open on the counter, her tablet propped against the coffee maker. Robbie shuffled in a minute later, hair sticking up in the back, blinking like a mole surfacing from its underground home.
“Morning,” I said.
“Morning,” Robbie mumbled as he headed for the fridge to pull out the orange juice. Same routine every morning. That was my boy.
I started a pot of coffee and leaned against the counter while it brewed, my thoughts looping back to the night before. The way Grady had gone pale beneath his tan. His lie about the shop and the abrupt way he’d left.
“Robbie,” I said.
He looked up. “Yeah?”
“Can I ask you something … delicate?”
