Chapter Five

Lindsey

I flat refused to make coffee this time.

Police, firefighters, the twin arson investigators, Carlson and McAdams, filled my house, tripped over boxes, muttered swear words I clearly heard, and questioned Brody until I suspected he'd go stark raving insane.

"I told you," he snapped, "Austin Rivers threatened me. He thinks I stole his dope. Go talk to him, for fuck's sake."

"We can't find him," Carlson said mildly. "He's not at any of his known hangouts."

"Then go find him," Brody roared. "You're the police. Protect me. He's the fucking crook, not me."

"What else can you tell us about him?" asked a police detective.

" Nothing ," Brody shouted. "Until he showed up at my work, I hadn't seen him for five fucking years."

The questions wore on. On my nerves, on Brody's, maybe even on theirs. On my occasional trips to the kitchen, not for coffee, I gazed out my window onto my backyard and wondered if I should move again before I'd even unpacked. Easy enough to load the boxes into a U-Haul. Repack. Hit the road, find someplace new. Escape this shit hole.

"An elderly neighbor said she saw a black Lincoln stop at your house just before dawn," the detective stated. "Sound familiar?"

"Oh, I'm sure Austin drives black sedans," Brody replied with a harsh laugh. "Isn't that the standard vehicle for drug dealers?"

"I dunno." The detective shrugged. "I know one dealer who drove red Land Rovers. Who knew?"

Brody covered his face with his hands. "Look," he said, obviously vying for patience. "Just go arrest him. Question him. Get him off the streets."

"If we can find him," McAdams murmured. "He's got tons of connections all over this town."

"Great."

I wished I could rub Brody's tense shoulders, offer him soothing words. Looking at his bowed back, his face hidden, I wished I could do something . Anything. I didn't know him well enough. I dared not touch him, give these police ideas that we hadn't met just two days ago. With suspicion uppermost in their heads, they'd surely think the worst.

I had my own enemy to contend with.

The detective left his card. "Call if you think of anything."

McAdams and Carlson left their condolences on the loss of his truck. "Let us know if we can help."

The cops and the firemen trickled out, perhaps miffed I never offered coffee. The smoking and blackened hulk of his prized truck sat in his driveway, the neighbors' speculations leaping from house to house. And not one came to offer help, to console, nor to even gain intel for the gossip circuit.

Brody breathed deeply, then sat back against my couch. "Fuck."

"I quite agree."

"Maybe I should get away, head for the mountains. Let Austin break his neck trying to find me."

"Might be a good idea."

He rolled his head on the leather to meet my eyes. "Can I borrow your car?"

My tension since I'd read the e-mail overflowed, broke. I snorted laughter, then it burst its dam, out of control. I laughed until the tears flowed, until my breath hitched in my chest and my throat burned. Brody laughed with me, holding my hand, his anger, his fears, his tensions bolting from him like a runaway horse.

Gasping for breath, we sat side by side, holding hands, bubbles of laughter breaking from our lips now and then.

"It wasn't funny," I managed, my voice hoarse. "But it was."

"Yeah."

"No, you can't borrow my car to head for the hills. Sorry."

"I know. I just hoped to break the ice you're in."

"You did."

His hand over mine squeezed lightly. "You okay?"

"No." I rolled my face toward him. "But I'm better."

"If you drive, I'll buy breakfast."

"Deal."

While I changed into jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers, Brody dressed. When I returned, my hair freshly brushed, I caught him gingerly pulling his boots on, wincing. "I should change your wraps," I said, sitting beside him.

"I took them off," he replied. "Tossed them."

His boots on, Brody rested, his head bowed. This time, I didn't hold back the impulse to squeeze his shoulder. "Maybe we should stay home."

His quirky smile, the humor in his honey eyes, almost undid me. Turning his face, he quickly kissed my hand. "Nope. I owe you breakfast. And so much more."

"You're hurting too much. Breakfast can wait."

"I really need to get out of here," he murmured. "A change of scenery."

Outside, Brody hobbled slowly to his blackened wreck. Most of the neighbors had vanished when the drama ceased, yet a few stood on driveways in huddled groups. I didn't need to be a fly on the wall to know what they discussed. I joined Brody, absently thinking that he should escape to the mountains for a while.

Before this Rivers nutcase killed him.

"I loved this truck," Brody murmured. "It's not like I can run to the nearest dealership and buy another."

"It's replaceable," I reminded him. "Your life isn't. Let's go."

In the passenger seat as I drove, Brody called his work, explained the fires and his burned feet. "Sorry, man, I got this dude after me. I have to lay low."

He listened, his mouth tight. "I know we're on a schedule. Get Sammy to stand in for me, he knows everything I know."

Brody shut his phone down, then shoved it into his pocket. "What a clusterfuck."

"Yep."

"There's a good diner on the main drag," Brody went on, pointing. "Take a right here."

"Are you going to lose your job?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Depends on how long this shit lasts."

The diner appeared popular by the number of cars in the lot, but I still found a spot close to the entrance. I paced slowly beside Brody as he hobbled inside. The hostess recognized his dilemma and immediately seated us. He sat with a long sigh and put his face in his hands.

The hostess poured coffee for us both. "Thanks."

Part of me craved to take his hand in mine, to offer comfort, solace. The untrusting, cynical part reminded me I barely knew this guy. Who was he to me? My neighbor, sure. Once his crisis had passed, Brody would return to being just that – a neighbor. One you shared waves with and nothing else.

I sipped my coffee, fighting down the urge to crave more than that. I longed for love, a relationship that wouldn't hurt me. I also knew that could never happen. I could not let anyone close to my heart. Not ever. Being this close to Brody during his crisis had nearly become far too much already.

Brody lifted his face at last, offering me a small smile. "Sorry to be such lousy company."

"You're fine."

I idly watched the other diners at nearby tables. Stay at home moms with their kids, businessmen with papers talking in low tones, elderly couples out for a nice breakfast. I felt Brody's eyes on me, and ignored them, ignored the questions he wanted to ask.

"I wish you'd talk to me," he commented.

"What about?"

"Whatever's going on with you. You can trust me."

"Can I? I don't know you, Brody. Yeah, you seem honest, you're one of the good guys. Trust is earned. Not given."

"Touché." He smiled wryly. "Well, I hope I'll earn your trust."

The waitress took our orders. I drank my coffee, people watched, and wondered how long I had before my stalker showed up. A week? Less? Maybe if I repacked my stuff, and hit the road, I'd escape this time. I mentally planned to do just that, as soon as Brody returned home.

I've had enough drama and violence in my life. I sure as shit don't need more.

"I'm moving on," I said slowly.

Brody's head swung toward me fast. "As in?"

"Hitting the road. Find a new place to live."

"Because of me?"

I shook my head. "It's part of it, but not all."

"Who are you afraid of?"

The waitress arrived with our breakfast, effectively cutting off any reply I might make. She left us to eat, then returned to refresh our coffee, then departed again. I started to eat, again feeling Brody's eyes on me.

"Don't go," he pleaded softly. "I'll help you. Through whatever problem is chasing you."

I didn't reply because my food stuck in my throat. I barely managed to swallow before I choked. "You can't."

"Yeah, I can. You came to help me, I'll return the favor."

"It's not the same."

"That trust issue again," he said, his voice tight.

I smiled. "Not just you. I don't trust anyone."

He stabbed his fork into his hashbrowns with more force than necessary. "Trust me or not, I will help you. And not just because you helped me. It's because it's not only the right thing to do, but also because I like you. You're scared and maybe I can do something about it."

I shook my head. "Just forget about it. Forget me."

"That'll never happen."

***

Upon our return home, Brody hobbled slowly from my driveway to his, pausing to grieve over his burned truck before going into the house. I walked into my own. Setting my purse and keys down on the kitchen counter, I poured a glass of wine and stared at the mess of partially unpacked boxes. They represented, so very clearly, the story of my life.

A mess. Caught halfway between the past and the future. Whither shall I go from here?

"I don't want to leave this house," I muttered. "If I do, where will I go? Not back to California, that's for damn sure."

I considered getting a map from my car and sticking a pin in it, but I felt too stressed and depressed to bother. Taking my glass, I wandered my house, looking at what I'd unpacked, what pictures I'd hung, what I still had to do. I pondered calling the U-Haul company to rent a trailer, then sat on my sofa.

The blanket Brody had used still lay on it. Lifting it to my face, I breathed in his scent and called myself an idiot for doing so. What is he to me? A neighbor. That's all. I dropped it, then ambled to the front window to look out. At least the neighborhood spies weren't standing in their driveways.

A long, black Lincoln drove slowly past my house to halt in front of Brody's.

Alarm shot through me.

A neighbor reported a black Lincoln stopping there before the truck fire started.

Two dudes stepped from the car.

I didn't pause to think. I left the window and went to the kitchen. Seizing the Glock, I made sure a round was chambered, then stuck it into the small of my back. By the time I stood on my porch, the guys were gone, perhaps already in Brody's house.

I wasn't a hero. I didn't intend to put my life on the line for someone I barely knew.

I crossed the yard to Brody's place because I had to.

Like a spy or a cop, I crept toward the closed front door close to the house's wall, not letting myself be seen from the interior. I glanced around for any possible bad guys creeping up on me, saw nothing, then put my ear to the front door. I heard raised voices but couldn't understand what they said.

Testing the door's handle, I found it unlocked.

Silently swinging it open, I stepped cautiously across the threshold.

"Where's my dope?" yelled a guy, no doubt Austin Rivers, our local firebug.

"I don't have it," Brody shouted back. "I never took it, you dumb shit."

I slid closer to the voices, peered around a corner.

Brody faced two guys, his expression angry but not much scared. Or so I thought. The dude on my right slipped a switchblade knife into his hand, then clicked it open.

In a move so fast I barely saw it, he'd slashed Brody across his cheek.