Chapter 12

"Hello?" Deputy Bobby's voice came from the vestibule, echoing through the stillness of Hemlock House. "Sheriff's Office. Mr. Dane?"

"In here," I called from the den. I was on my back, squirming around for a better look.

Footsteps moved toward me, and a moment later, Deputy Bobby said, "What in the world are you doing?"

"I'm trying to find the—uh, thief. Killer. Whoever it was."

"In the fireplace?"

I sat up. Carefully. I'd seen Arrested Development enough times (according to Hugo, way too many times) to know the dangers of sitting up quickly inside a fireplace. "They came in here, and they disappeared. Ergo, there's a secret passage. Ergo, I have to find it. Ergo, fireplace."

Deputy Bobby stood there for a while. Then he crossed the room, crouched, and looked me in the eye. "What are you on?"

"Three slices of cake and—how many cups of coffee are in a carafe?"

"That depends on the size of the carafe. And the size of the cup. And how much you brewed."

"I filled the water all the way to the top, ergo—"

"Okay," he said. "Let's get you out of there, and how about you try not to touch anything?"

"Why—" I took a look at myself, saw that I was covered in soot, and said, "Oh."

"Uh huh. Upsy-daisy."

He caught me under the arms and lifted, and somehow, I got to my feet without touching (and destroying) the priceless antiques around me. The possibility of a less-than-spotless fireplace hadn't occurred to me, but admittedly, I'd been in something of a frenzy after soothing myself with cake and coffee. Getting some sugar in my system—and caffeine—had seemed like the rational thing to do while waiting for a deputy to respond to my 911 call. In fact, it had been the only thing I could do; there had been a string of unanswered texts from Fox and Millie on my phone, but I couldn't deal with them right then. And now Deputy Bobby was here, and I was realizing in hindsight, of course it was exactly my luck that he would be the one who got the callout.

"Why are you here?" I asked him.

"Did you call 911?"

"I mean why you. I mean—I mean why you specifically. Not that I'm not happy to see you."

"Nice save."

"How would you like a hug?"

That goofy grin slipped out for a moment, and Deputy Bobby warded off my soot-stained embrace with one hand. "I happened to be the closest deputy when your call came in. Probably because everyone else is at Adrian Huggins's house, and I was still driving back after dropping you off."

"Oh."

"Want to tell me what happened?"

I did.

When I finished, Deputy Bobby said, "Stay here. I'm going to take a look around."

"Most of the cake had already been eaten. I need you to understand I wasn't starting with a full cake."

He looked at me for what felt like a long time before he sighed and left.

It wasn't long before he came back. "The house and the surrounding grounds are clear. Indira didn't hear or see anything." There was a strange note in his voice as he added, "Secret passages aside, the house appears to be empty."

"But you believe me, right?"

"I believe you." And then, without missing a beat, he added, "I don't agree with you, but I believe you."

"What does that mean?"

"It means we're going to stop looking for secret passages."

"What? Why? They came in here! And when I got the door open, they were gone."

"And the window isn't latched," Deputy Bobby said.

I opened my mouth. Then I stopped. Could they have gone out the window while I was trying to get the door open? Yes. Maybe. Possibly. And then slid it shut behind them. That seemed like an unnecessary step, but…maybe?

"Let's get you cleaned up," Deputy Bobby said. But when we left the den and I turned toward the kitchen, he said, "That's cute, but no." And he pointed to the stairs.

It wasn't until I got to the bathroom that I saw, well, the mess. I looked like that chimney sweep guy from Mary Poppins. I looked like that guy if he'd had a really bad day and possibly found a killer in his bedroom and then chased the killer through the house and—

The splash of water startled me. Deputy Bobby stood next to the clawfoot tub, trying to figure out the taps.

"Please tell me this place has hot water," he muttered.

"Get out of here," I said.

"I want you to lock the door behind me."

"I thought the house was empty."

"Both doors. And I don't need a smart aleck right now."

I gave him that jaunty little salute again.

He sighed. "Both doors."

"Both doors, Deputy Bobby."

"I'm going to see if I can lift any prints from the window. I don't know if I'll be able to do anything with your clothes or luggage."

"Aye-aye."

He sighed again when he stepped out of the room and pulled the door shut behind him. I pulled off my tee and hissed through my teeth as that red light went on in my shoulder again.

"You okay?"

"Fantastic."

A moment later, his voice carried clearly through the wood. "Why haven't I heard the lock yet?"

I locked the door.

"Both doors."

"Oh my actual God," I said. But I crossed to the other door and locked it too.

The hot water felt amazing. And there was something weirdly satisfying about seeing the soot snake off me and swirl around the drain. But mostly, it was just so…nice to have Deputy Bobby here. I suppose I should have felt terrified that someone had been in the house, that someone had risked going through my things while I was downstairs, that someone had disappeared as though by magic. Because I didn't buy the window explanation. And I had zero idea what someone would want from my belongings—unless they were planning to frame me yet again. Maybe the terror was there, waiting for me to be alone in the dark again. But right now, instead of feeling any of those things (except perpetually confused), I felt relaxed. Deputy Bobby was here. And he was being, well, kind. Again. Like the weird hardness of the last day had never happened.

Maybe because the water was warm, or maybe because of the way the spray kneaded sore muscles, maybe because I was experiencing a serious sugar crash, or maybe knowing that Deputy Bobby was there meant that, for the first time in days, I felt safe—whatever the reason, by the time I'd cleaned myself up, the water had sluiced away most of my coffee-and-cake-fueled buzz too. I slipped into a pair of sleep shorts and an ancient SEGA tee, and then, as I opened the bedroom door, I called out, "Deputy Bobby!"

Directly into his face.

Because he was, of course, standing right there.

Working a finger in his ear, he gave a mock grimace. "You've been spending too much time with Millie."

"I thought you were downstairs."

"What?"

"I thought—you jerk!"

The goofball smile flashed again. I stepped back to let him into the room. He looked at me, and I was suddenly aware of the sleep shorts, of the washed-to-transparency tee. I couldn't read what was in his face. Then he said, in a voice that was slightly different, "Had you never been to Oregon before?"

"What?"

"The shorts. The T-shirts. I mean, on a sunny day, sure. In August. But haven't you been freezing?"

"Uh, yes?"

"Was that a question?"

"Did you find anything on the window?"

The grimace was a real one this time, and he shook his head.

"Nothing?" I asked.

"Nothing usable."

"Great," I said. I flopped onto the bed and stared up at the canopy. "Perfect."

"I know this is hard to believe, but maybe it was a coincidence. We've got Matrika Nightingale in custody. And you've got to think about this from a different perspective. People will have heard about Vivienne's death. They know she was wealthy. They know about Hemlock House. And although Hastings Rock is cute and touristy, a lot of the coast isn't doing nearly so well. Someone probably thought it would be an easy score—walk into an empty house and take whatever they want."

I almost said, From my suitcase? But we'd already had a version of that argument.

The mattress dipped when he sat on the edge of the bed. The sense of safety and warmth I'd experienced was rapidly evaporating. Okay, the vanishing warmth was at least partly because Deputy Bobby was right (as usual), and I probably should have been wearing my flannel long johns. The chill damp of the sea had settled into everything, even the bedding. But in a few minutes, he'd leave, and I'd be alone again. And no matter what he said, I didn't believe the person in my room had been an opportunistic hooligan from a nearby town.

"Why are you here?"

The question—and how he said it, as though he'd reached the absolute pinnacle of bafflement—startled a laugh out of me. "Rude."

"You know what I mean." And then, his voice bent with what might have been amusement. "And sorry."

"I'm here because I thought I had this great job opportunity. Look how that turned out."

"No, you're not."

I stared up at the canopy. The roar of the waves seemed louder. Maybe someone had opened a window; that would explain the sound I heard rushing in my head.

"You're smart, obviously. I mean, you're definitely a smart aleck, but you're also very smart." Deputy Bobby paused as though trying to pick his next words more carefully. "And I'd like to say you have no sense of self-preservation, and possibly no common sense, but the truth is, you're brave, and you're determined, and you're capable. You could be anywhere. Doing anything. With anyone."

Why did that last part make me want to sit up and look into his face again, see if I could see it there again—whatever I'd seen when he'd looked at me a few moments ago, when I'd known he was looking at me?

Before I had to say anything, Deputy Bobby said, "I know what you told the sheriff. I know what you told Millie. I know you're a writer, and Vivienne's a writer, and on the surface it all makes sense. But your parents are famous writers."

I groaned. "You looked me up?"

"You were a murder suspect," he protested, but he laughed. "I had to do my due diligence."

This big house with all those big old clocks, and I couldn't hear a single one of them ticking.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's none of my business."

"No, it's okay. It's a fair question. I'm embarrassed, that's all."

"You don't have to be embarrassed."

"That's easy for you to say since you don't know why I'm embarrassed." I tried to make the words light, but they fell flat anyway. I kept my gaze on the canopy, and I took slow, deep breaths as I talked. "I was in a relationship. His name was Hugo, and he was perfect. Everyone told me how perfect he was. My friends loved him. My parents loved him." I was still trying to breathe, but I felt like a giant's paw was wrapped around my chest, squeezing. Will Gower didn't cry, I thought as I blinked. Will Gower never cried. "And one day, I had to get out of there. I had to leave. I couldn't stay there one more day."

Deputy Bobby's silence was all saw-toothed edges, and when he finally spoke, his voice was ratcheted down. "If he hurt you, you can still—"

"No. God, no. He didn't hurt me. He didn't cheat on me. He didn't steal all my money. He told me he loved me." Maybe I imagined the sudden charge to the quiet in the room. Maybe it was only in my head. But even so, the hairs on my arms stood up, and goose bumps tightened my skin. "And I didn't love him. I told myself I did. Everyone else told me I did. Every single person I knew told me how perfect he was, and how lucky I was, and how we were a dream couple. And for a while, that was enough. And then it wasn't. So, I told him. And we broke up." I had to stop again. When I could, I said, "Hugo's a great guy, really. He's kind and patient and smart and funny. He's a much better writer than I am. And he loves me. But I'm not going to do that. Lie to him, I mean. Or lie to myself. I won't do it. So, that's why I'm embarrassed. Because it's such a small thing, and I was so dramatic about it—taking this job, moving across the country. There's no big horror story, just Dashiell Dawson Dane being a problem, as always." I tried to stop, but the words just kept coming. "See? Embarrassing."

Deputy Bobby's chest rose and fell with his breaths. That silent, electric charge intensified until I felt like my hair was going to pop off my head.

And then he said, "I don't think that's embarrassing. I think that's brave. I think you're brave."

Tears stung my eyes, and I had to swallow before I could speak. "My parents didn't think it was particularly brave. My dad told me I was being an idiot, and my mom asked if I would be uncomfortable if she still invited Hugo to Christmas."

A beat passed before Deputy Bobby said, "Jeez."

"It's okay. They just didn't know what to say. I don't think they were ever in love. They love their writing. They love talking to each other about their writing. I remember my mom was on a self-improvement kick and made a rule that we couldn't talk about work at the table—it lasted about two days, and those were the two worst dinners of my life. They just sat there. I honestly think they were on the brink of divorce, and it had only been two days." I shook my head. "I don't want that. I don't want to live like that."

He breathed. I breathed. And in the space between our breaths, I felt…something. Something trying to work its way out. Something fighting to be free.

"It was very brave," he said again, his voice low. "You should be proud of yourself."

It felt like more was coming, but he didn't say anything else. Finally, I said, "Thanks. I guess I'd feel prouder if I wasn't constantly questioning if I did the right thing. I mean, how are you supposed to know what love feels like? How is anyone supposed to know? Maybe I do love Hugo; sometimes I think I do. But most of the time, I think—I think if that's love, it's not enough. I want the kind of love that doesn't leave any room for doubt. But then I think, maybe that's a fantasy. Maybe what I feel for Hugo is all that anybody feels. Maybe everything else is just made up. Or maybe it's me. Maybe there's something broken in me, and maybe I'll never love anyone the way I want to. Maybe what I had with Hugo really was perfect—for me, I mean—and I threw it all away for a stupid dream." I had to fight to steady my voice, fight to sound joking when I added, "So, yeah, lots of overthinking and general indecisiveness."

Deputy Bobby turned, and I got a look at his face. The only word I had for it was raw, like his armor had been stripped away and I was seeing that naked, vulnerable part we all try to hide from the world. Then the armor came back. He was Deputy Bobby again—although a hint of it lingered in his eyes, pain or fear or plain old unsettlement. He started to say something and stopped. His throat moved. And then, his voice pleasantly raspy, he said, "You're not broken. And you're not wrong. You weren't indecisive. You made a decision—a hard one. And you shouldn't doubt yourself, not about this. You deserve that kind of love. And I think the world would be a better place if more people did what you did. If they were honest about their feelings. If they fought for what they wanted and didn't settle for less."

His eyes were that deep, polished bronze, and after a moment, I had to look away.

"You might possibly be broken in the head, though."

I gave him a glare.

"We haven't talked about your choice to creep downstairs after you heard a gunshot."

"It's what Will Gower would have done!"

"I have no idea who Will Gower is, but he sounds like he needs to be in a psych ward."

"Oh, one time he was, and his assistant—she was a match girl—" I managed to stop myself. I found a smile and dusted it off. "You stayed way longer than you should have."

Deputy Bobby shook his head.

"You did. You should have checked the place out and left. Tonight's got to be a disaster after—" I couldn't bring myself to say the sheriff. "I'm sorry I kept you."

"You didn't keep me. I was doing my job. And believe it or not, I would much rather spend time with you."

"I bet you say that to all the boys."

"No," he said. "I don't."

Something creaked in the house. Deputy Bobby sat up straight, hand going to the gun at his side. I shot up from the bed like I had a rocket strapped to me. But no other sounds came, and after a moment, I gave a shaky laugh. Deputy Bobby offered one of those wry smiles, but I noticed, in that moment before his hand relaxed, that his knuckles were white around his gun.

"What are you going to do now?" Deputy Bobby asked as he stood.

"I don't know. I guess go home? I mean, I didn't want to leave while I was still the prime suspect, but now that I'm not about to be arrested, I guess I'll go home and…figure things out. Whatever that means."

He was looking straight at me, his gaze direct and unwavering and unnervingly intense. And he said, "That would be a shame. Just one guy's opinion, but you definitely make things more interesting around here."

And I had no idea what to say to that.

The corner of his mouth turned, and he added, "But I meant tonight."

"Oh."

"Uh huh."

"Oh my God."

"That was a very dramatic pronouncement, though."

I covered my eyes. "Could you please step outside while I die of embarrassment?"

Even his laugh was nice. "Do you have someone who could stay with you? Or I could drive you to a motel—no, God, they're all full. I don't like the idea of you staying here alone."

I shrugged.

"If you don't mind staying up a few hours," Deputy Bobby said, and it took me a moment to identify the note in his voice as uncertainty, "You could stay with me and West—"

"WE'RE HERE!"

Millie's supersonic greeting boomed from downstairs.

Deputy Bobby's smile was funny. "Spoke too soon."