Chapter 5

I called 911. Then I went inside and got Deputy Bobby. He must have seen something on my face because, even though I could tell he was still upset, his expression immediately changed to detached professionalism. I took him to Hugo and Mason, and he checked both of them. Hugo, he pronounced okay. But I’d been right about Mason.

After I’d told Deputy Bobby everything, he put me in the Jeep and told me to get the heater going. When I couldn’t get the keys in the ignition, he took them and did it for me.

He went back inside, and he must have said something to Seely, because nobody left the bar until the deputies arrived and set up a privacy barrier around Hugo and Mason. An ambulance came, and I couldn’t see what they did behind the barrier, but I saw when the paramedics wheeled Hugo away on a stretcher. A van marked District Medical Examiner arrived, and more people went to work, setting up dozens of LED lights until the parking lot was bright enough to make my head throb.

Where was Cole? The question broke through the frozen numbness of my brain. I cupped my hands over the vents; I was still trembling, and even though it wasn’t a cold night—cool, yes, but not cold—the heat felt good. And then a second question came: where was Penny?

A deputy named Winegar, heavyset and pouchy eyed, took my statement, and at Deputy Bobby’s request, he said I could go home.

“Come on,” Deputy Bobby said, a hand on my elbow as he urged me out of the Jeep.

“But he said I could go home.”

“You’re not driving.”

Once I was settled in the Jeep’s passenger seat, Deputy Bobby took the wheel. We eased out of the lot and headed south toward Hemlock House. We left Hastings Rock behind and entered the forest: lots of massive Sitka spruce, but fir and alder and pine too. Ferns so big and ancient-looking they would have made a dinosaur happy. The fog belt was thick tonight, and when we passed through it, it was like the only thing that existed was the inside of the Jeep, and me, and Deputy Bobby.

“How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

“It’s all right if you’re not. That would have been a shock to anyone.”

“Then I’m terrible.”

Deputy Bobby’s big, goofy grin flashed and then was gone. “Your friend is going to be fine.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said, “I hope so.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but then we cleared the fog. The headlights cut little circles out of the night: the gray green of the trees and bracken, the blacktop, the reflectors winking back at us. We kept driving, and Deputy Bobby didn’t say anything else.

When he pulled into the coach house, my brain finally cleared enough to ask, “Are you okay?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t mean, um, Mason.”

He cocked his head.

“I know you’re a big, burly police type.”

He turned in his seat. He had a perfect, razor-sharp part in his hair. A perfect, razor-sharp jawline. Have I mentioned he had a perfect face?

“Nothing fazes you,” I said. “You’re the Man of Steel. You eat bad guys for breakfast. Actually, that seems super unhealthy, and definitely not Deputy Bobby approved. I bet you eat a grapefruit every morning. Zero bad guys.”

“Dash.”

“Maybe soaked oats?”

He gave me a look.

“With currants?”

“You’re making me reconsider the definition of okay. What’s going on?”

“I heard you and West.” The words escaped me in a rush. And then, as I shrank down in my seat and tried not to die, “After Mason and Cole argued. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, it just happened. And you’re, you know, my friend, and I could tell you were unhappy, and I wanted to make sure, um, you’re okay. Or something.”

Deputy Bobby was silent for about ten seconds. On the Dashiell Dawson Dane scale of Social Terror, it was a nine-point-seven.

“That was pretty terrible for you, huh?” Deputy Bobby asked.

For some reason, that eased some of the tension in my body. “Oh my God, you have no idea.”

“I appreciate you asking, but I’m fine.”

I nodded.

“West and I are fine,” Deputy Bobby said.

I waited.

“He’s understandably upset. And I’m upset because he’s upset.”

In the distance, the ocean sounded like a vast, unending murmur.

Deputy Bobby pushed a hand through his hair, making it not quite so perfect (don’t worry, it still had a certain charm). And then he breathed out hard and long, and his voice was small as he said, “God, he is so mad at me, and I feel like nothing I do—” He stopped. A moment passed, and then another. He opened the door, and as he got out, he said, “I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t be talking about this.” And then he shut the door.

I got out of the Jeep and found him waiting on the drive. As the coach house’s overhead door rattled down, I said, “You can talk about it, though. If you ever want to.”

He didn’t say anything.

“I’m an excellent listener.”

Deputy Bobby shifted his weight. “Let’s get you inside.”

“And because I’m literally the most awkward person on the planet, you never have to worry about saying the wrong thing. Because you won’t even have a chance. I’ll say the wrong thing first.”

That made the corner of his mouth tick up.

“And because I’m your friend.”

“What is it going to take to end this conversation?”

“You tell me all your secrets and let me braid your hair.”

A rare laugh burst out of him. “Inside, Mr. Dane. And get some rest.”

“Aye-aye, Deputy Bobby.”

At the front door, though, we both stopped again. The silence had a rushing quality that I thought might be the sound of the waves, but it felt like more than that. Like something building and building, rolling back and forth between us.

“Just,” I said, “the offer stands, you know? Whenever. Whatever.”

He looked at me with an unsettling intensity before, finally, saying, “You’re a good friend.”

“Uh, not that good, because I realized I don’t know how you’re going to get home. Wait, is this, like, a thing for us?”

Deputy Bobby offered that huge, goofy grin again as a pair of headlights turned onto the drive.

“If I had waited five more seconds,” I said.

“So close.”

“Goodnight, Deputy Bobby.”

“Goodnight, Dash.”