“We’re a small town, Abigail. A small resort town, full of New Agers and old hippies, second-generation hippies, artists. We’re friendly.”
“I’m not. I’m sorry if that’s rude, but it’s fact. I’m not a friendly person, and I moved here for the quiet, the solitude. When you came to the house so soon after the market, it made me nervous, and angry. I have my reasons for carrying the pistol. I’m not obligated to share those reasons. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“That’s good to know.”
“I like my property, and the land around it. I like this town. I feel comfortable here. I just want to be left alone.”
“What Sylbie said about curiosity’s true. It’s a natural thing. The more mysterious you are, the more people wonder.”
“I’m not mysterious.”
“You’re a walking mystery.” He rose, came around the desk. As he did, he saw her brace, stay on alert, even when he leaned back against the front of the desk.
He wanted to ask her who’d hurt her, who she was afraid of. But he’d lose her if he did.
“You’re a really attractive woman who lives alone—with a big, muscular dog—outside of the town proper. Nobody knows for sure where you came from, why you came here, what you do for a living. And since this is the South, nobody knows who your people are. You’re a Yankee, so people will give you a certain latitude. We like eccentrics around here, it fits right in with the community. If people decide you’re eccentric, they’ll stop wondering.”
“By certain standards I am eccentric. I can be more so if that would satisfy everyone.”
He grinned at her, just couldn’t help it. “You’re definitely different. What do you do for a living, Abigail? If it’s not a mystery, or a matter of national security, you should be able to tell me. And that would be a simple conversation.”
“I’m a freelance computer programmer and software designer. I also design security systems, and improve or redesign existing systems, primarily for corporations.”
“Interesting. And not so hard to talk about.”
“Much of my work is highly sensitive. All of it is confidential.”
“Understood. You must be pretty smart.”
“I’m very smart.”
“Where’d you study?”
She stared at him, cool, calm, contained. “You see, when you ask all these questions, it doesn’t feel like conversation. It feels like interrogation.”
“Fair enough. Ask me a question.”
She frowned at him, eyes level. “I don’t have a question.”
“If you’re so smart, you can think of one.” He pushed off the desk, went to a dorm-sized refrigerator and took out two Cokes. He handed her one, popped the top on the second. “Something wrong?” he asked, when she just stared at the can in her hand.
“No. No. All right, a question. Why did you go into law enforcement?”
“See, that’s a good one.” He pointed at her in approval, then leaned against the desk again, the hills at his back in view out the window. “I like to solve problems. I believe in a lot of things. Don’t believe in a lot, too, but one of the things I believe in is there’s right and there’s wrong. Now, not everybody figures right and wrong exactly the same. It can be a subjective sort of thing. When you’re a cop, sometimes it is black-and-white, and sometimes you have to decide—in this situation, with these people, is it wrong, or just something that needs handling?”
“That seems very confusing.”
“Not really. It’s solving problems, and the only real way to solve them is to use your head. And your gut.”
“The intellect is a more accurate gauge than emotion. The intellect deals with facts. Emotions are variable and unreliable.”
“And human. What good are laws if they’re not human?”
He set his Coke down to take hers. He opened it for her, handed it back. “You need a glass?”
“Oh. No. Thank you.” She took a small sip. “Chief Gleason.”
“Brooks. Aren’t you going to ask me how I got a name like Brooks?”
