“I brought microbrews. Local ones. And other than that”—as if he’s read my mind about what else he’s carrying—“all I’ve got with me is this notepad and pen.” He points to his jacket pocket with his free hand. “May I?”
“Slowly,” I say.
He half kneels like he’s balancing on a surfboard and places the beer down on the gravel, then equally gingerly opens his fleece so I can see the inside pocket and pulls out his notepad and pen.
“What do you want?”
“Like I said, to talk to you first. About your story. You know I deserve first dibs, right?”
“Deserve?”
“Comeon.” He motions to the field he’s apparently come across. “There were divots and gopher holes. I almost ate it twice.” He flashes a wry smile. “And I was carrying this.” He glances at the beer. “And, you know, you almost shot me. That ought to be worth something.”
He’s undeniably disarming. Plus there’s the strong angle of his jaw, his golden eyes, and how his eyebrows grow fuller on the outside edges—something I wouldn’t have guessed would appeal to me. But I think ofthat word—disarming—and it occurs to me that maybe he didn’t use the field simply because Zane is guarding the front of the place. Maybe he doesn’t want me to see his car because it’s a dark-colored SUV like the one out at the dump site, and he’s been keeping an eye on me since we arrived from Dallas.
My mind frantically whirls like a top. I’m more convinced than ever now that the drawing is of me. I saw this guy at the conference, of all places. And then again at the airport in my own small Montana town? What are the chances? It seems much too coincidental.
Maybe he doesn’t know I didn’t get a good glimpse of his vehicle or its license plate and has come here because he thinks I’m now a loose end that needs tidying up ahead of the six-day allotment.
“Where were you before this?” I ask.
“At my hotel, reading up on you.”
If he’s faking it, he’s quick. And a good actor. “And what did you find out?”
“That it looks like someone you know sold you out to the press.”
I keep studying him. The night feels charged. Crickets trill loudly from the surrounding fields and my porch lights are attracting bugs. Bats swoop in and out of the shadows beyond the glare to hunt insects. He studies me back, his eyes wide with either concern for the gun pointed his way or sincerity. I can’t tell.
Keep your enemies close.“It’s cold out here,” I say at last. “Hang on.” I grab my phone out of my pocket with my free hand and hold it up and snap a photo of him. “There,” I say. “Now I’m going to text this to the deputy out front, so he can identify you if he has to.”
“Fair enough.”
Glancing up to him and back down to the phone, over and over, I pull up Zane’s number, attach the photo, and tell him that everything’s fine but that I want him to know I have a visitor.
“Also,” I tell Jeremy. “You should know, when I heard you outside, I called him, so he might be here any second.”
A lie, but it would have been a good idea, though I was glad he was still at the entrance keeping the others away.
Once inside, Jeremy stands by the front door, still unsure of himself—a good sign, I consider. I usher him into the dining area next to the kitchen.
“You going to keep that pointed at me all night?”
“Maybe.” A part of me does feel bad. No one likes to have one of these trained on them. “Sorry. But given the circumstances ... And you were an idiot to sneak up like that, with everything that’s going on.”
“I’m aware. But these are the hazards of the job. Gotta take some risks. I’m sure you understand, being a PI and all.”
There’s boldness, and there’s crazy, I think. “Have a seat.” I motion to the kitchen table, and he follows my direction. I remain standing while he twists the cap off one of his beers and holds it out to me. I stare at him, not moving to grab it.
“Don’t like?”
I take it but stay by the counter facing him, still holding the gun. A few sips won’t hurt, and I could use something to calm my nerves, which are thrumming like a high-voltage wire. “Thanks. You know I’m not giving you any kind of a confession, so what do you want from me?”
“Why not? It could save your life.”
“Gee, I don’t know, maybe because I have no idea what I’ve done that needs confessing. What? That a friend dared me to steal a piece of candy from the drugstore when I was a kid?”
“Hmm. That’s the worst secret you have?”
