“Private detective, sweetheart,” Shane corrects quickly, shuddering as if being a bounty hunter is a fate worse than death. “Licensed inIllinois.”
I ignore the dig—knowing it’s in reference to metechnicallynot being a licensed bounty hunter in this state—instead watching the chain of emotional reactions playing out across Helen’s face; she has one of those transparent faces, where every feeling is broadcast in cinemascope. Irritation, first, at being called sweetheart. Then shock as she processes that Shane is a private detective. (She, like most normal law-abiding citizens, has probably never come across a private detective; I, unfortunately, can’t say the same. Let’s just say that the nickname “Private Dick” didn’t come from nowhere.) Finally, worry as she registers just how much trouble Dean must be in for multiple people to be searching for him.
“You’ve…” Helen gulps, shying away now from Shane’s touch. “You’ve been coming to the library all this time, undercover, trying to find Dean?”
Shane, as per usual, does not take the hint, retaining his hold on her lower back. “Not totally undercover. I mean, I kept my name. It’s just easier that way. But I do have a persona I’ve been working on for cases. You know, happy-go-lucky, aren’t-trees-awesome, shroom guy. What’d you think—did I nail it?”
He sounds like he genuinely wants feedback on his performance, from the person he’s been conning for the last month or so, just like I’ve been doing. Once again, I feel a twinge of guilt for what I’ve put her through. She’ll be second-guessing everyone she meets now, some of that open sunniness dimmed. Maybe forever.
Helen takes a step away from both of us, looking back and forth between us two idiots.I’m not like this guy,I want to protest, but realize it isn’t entirely true. So I keep my mouth shut.
“Let me say this loud enough for any other undercover agents to hear,” Helen says, with enough volume to draw attention from the long line, tacos temporarily forgotten in the face of this unexpected drama. “I have no idea where my brother, Dean Flanagan, is. We are not in contact. So please, please, leave me alone.” She starts to go, then turns back, angrily pointing a finger in Shane’s face. “You can use the outside drop box to return your book. It’s due in two weeks.”
She glances at me, and for a moment I think she might say something. But she just jerks her head a little, like she’s having some conversation with herself that ultimately ends withnot worth it, and walks away.
Shane waits until she’s out of earshot before turning to me with a commiserating grimace. “Well, that was a real waste of a month.” He claps an arm around my shoulders. “Come on, man. Let’s get some tacos. My treat—I know how fickle bounty hunting can be, even for the sons of D-list celebrities…”
I grit my teeth, working through some of my anger management breathing exercises to help me keep my temper in check as I listen to Shane prattle on: “…did you know all of that was going on under those huge sweaters? Because I sure as hell didn’t. I would have been playing a different angle than chummy library patron if I’d known she had tits like that.”
Breathe in, breathe out. Think of a tree, with roots embedded deep into the earth, and branches reaching up high into the sky…
Shane turns to me with renewed interest. “She was pretty pissed at you, though, huh? Sounds like maybe you got in a bit ahead of me?” He elbows me in the ribs, harder than is necessary. “First time for everything, I guess.”
I debate internally whether to correct Shane on his assertion that I “got in ahead of him.” Presumably, he’s insinuating that I’ve already slept with Helen? That hasn’t happened, of course, though there was that weird kiss—less weird in hindsight, once I learned Helen’s last serious relationship was with God. I wonder if Shane knows that, but decide not to bring it up; it definitely isn’t my place to share that. I also don’t especially want to hear the comments Shane might make about Helen having been a nun. Shane strikes me as the kind of guy who might take it as a challenge to devirginize a former nun—assuming that Helen’s still a virgin. She’s been out of the convent for a few years (I now know after some research), so things might have happened in the meantime. Probably. It’s none of my business. Still, Shane will find a way to make it into some dumbass game, complete with puerile bragging rights.
God, I hate private detectives. I catch myself running a hand over the back of my neck, a nervous tic ever since I was a kid. I used to have these cowlicks at the back of my head—still would, if I grew my hair out longer—but I was scolded enough by my meemaw that I tried to make myself stop doing it. The result is that the impulse remains, but now I’ve schooled myself to just rub my neck, which is, for whatever reason, more socially acceptable.
Someone who doesn’t seem to care about being socially acceptable, at all, is Shane, who holds out his hands in front of his chest, intimating the size of Helen’s breasts. “Seriously, I’m not usually into full-figured chicks, but those were impressive knockers. Maybe Iaminto full-figured chicks?” Shane considers this, as though facing some great existential crisis to his perception of himself. “Kate Winslet, yes. Usually. Not when she’s, like, grunged up for Oscar bait. I’m sayingTitanic, notMare of Easttown,you know?”
What the hell is he talking about? I search desperately for some way to change the subject—then realize, abruptly, there’s no need whatsoever to stay in the conversation. Shane and I aren’t friends. The tacos here are good, but notthatgood. There is literally no reason to put myself through the torture that is talking to Shane Feldstone.
“I’m gonna go,” I say abruptly, cutting Shane off midsentence as he debates his feelings about Kate Winslet inThe Holiday. Probably, I should have come up with some excuse for why I’m leaving, but I just don’t feel like Shane deserves it.
“What? I thought we were getting tacos, man.” Shane looks belligerent as he watches me duck out of line. “Don’t be like that, Thad—just ’cause she askedmeout on a date.”
I pause at that, but only briefly, and continue on to my car.
As I drive around, trying to come up with a plan B for dinner—the problem is, now I have tacos in mind, but the tacos just aren’t as good anywhere else—I can’t get that last parting shot from Shane out of my mind. Helen askedShaneout on a date? By some miracle, Shane and I hadn’t run into each other as we were both staking out Helen at the library, but during my time watching Helen, I’d flattered myself that there was a connection between us. Not that people can’t be connected to more than one person; I don’t have any rights over Helen’s romantic interests. She can like who she likes. But…Shane?
Granted, Shane mentioned he was playing some kind of character during his interactions with Helen. That’s another thing Shane has a reputation for, in law-enforcement-adjacent circles: he likes to play “characters” when he’s undercover. Rumor has it that he’s a Second City reject and his backup plan was becoming a PI. The point being, the “Shane” he showed to Helen was likely very different from the Shane I (unfortunately) know all too well.
Still, the thought of Helen having romantic feelings for Shane Feldstone does not sit right. A sudden thought draws me up in the driver’s seat, making me sit a little straighter and grip the wheel a little tighter. The night I went to Helen’s reading at her writing group, and she read that sexy story, the hero—Ansel or Ajax or whatever—had wavy hair. For whatever reason, that detail stuck out to me, amongst all the other more interesting details about bras being ripped open and members being grasped and whatnot. Maybe I just latched on to some pointless tidbit to keep from getting a hard-on as I listened to Helen read those shockingly filthy words out loud (she can’t still be a virgin, right?), but I remember thinking it was weird how many times Helen mentioned his hair was wavy. Wavy, wavy, wavy.
Isn’t that another word for curly? Like Shane’s wildly curly hair?
The thought has me gritting my teeth and abruptly pulling into a Taco Bell drive-thru. Quality be damned, I’m gonna get some tacos.
As I wait my turn in this much shorter line, something else niggles at the back of my brain, some small detail that I’ve managed to overlook. I groan to myself. If there are other clues that indicate Helen’s spending her evenings fantasizing about riding astride Shane’s muscular thighs, and then writing it all down, I do not want to know about it. I’m going to get my tacos, and drive home, and put onThe Killers. Let Ava Gardner forever and always be the ultimate reminder: women, especially beautiful women, cannot be trusted.
Although…Helen is beautiful. And trustworthy. She’s just a good person who’s been pulled into a bad situation.
No sooner has the thought crossed my mind than the irritating, nagging thing that’s been bothering me suddenly appears as a fully formed thought in my head: Helen mentioned the last time she had significant contact with Dean was to help plan their mother’s Christmas present. Dean Flanagan might be caught up with some bad people doing some bad things, but he’s still a mama’s boy at heart.
The mom. She’s the key to finding Dean. And Helen just might bemykey to getting to Mrs. Flanagan.
But it would be wrong to pull Helen back into my search for Dean. I don’t want to draw the wrong kind of attention to her, be the reason a bullseye is painted on her back.
Then again, if Shane’s already been sniffing around her, who knows who else has been? Someone even worse than Shane. Someone even worse than me.
