Page 17 of Secrets Along the Shore
“I left it at the lake.” Reuben eyed me. No, more like he assessed me.
“How’d you get my car open? I’d locked the doors.”
“I have my magic ways.” He rubbed his thumb against his fingers as if conjuring a magical flame.
“Whatever.” I muttered, pushing past him. I should say “thanks” or give him some sort of gratitude. But his inflated ego and self-imposedownership of the Serpent Killer’s case had long since soured me against him.
“Where are you going?” He trailed behind me as I tried to find my way through his house to his front door.
“Home.”
“Are you going to walk?”
“Why not?” I quipped over my shoulder.
“Because it’s fifteen miles to your apartment.”
I stopped, turned, and stared at him. “You couldn’t have taken me there?”
“I didn’t have a key to your place and you, Noa Lorne, were not exactly coherent.”
“A hospital then?”
“For a panic attack?” Reuben shook his head. “They’d inject you with lorazepam and send you home to detox.”
I had no words for this man.
We eyed each other for a long second. One of those tense moments filled with a hundred-thousand questions and none of which were voiced.
“I made coffee,” he finally offered.
I snorted an exaggerated sniff. “Burned it too.”
“Don’t rip on my French roast.”
“Ew.” I hated French roast.
“Listen.” Reuben turned his back to me and padded barefoot across his carpeted floor toward his kitchen. He must’ve expected me to follow voluntarily, because he kept chatting. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t think you’d want the attention of the ER.”
Chalk one up for Detective Reuben Walker. I followed him into the kitchen.
“And” —he reached to open a cupboard— “you weren’t in any shape to be home alone.” He extracted a white cafe mug with a daisy on it. Who was this guy? Fluffy cats smoking pipes, and daisies? None of that fit the persona of the Ghost. “So, I brought you here. I figured you could rest and then we could debrief.”
“Debrief?” I echoed.
He poured hot coffee into the mug and slid it across the barbetween us. His dark eyes pierced mine, and his shadow of dark whiskers coupled with his dark brows made him look more fierce than friendly. “Yeah. I want to know why you were at Stillwater Lake at 2:00 a.m. having a panic attack.”
“Why wereyouthere?” I countered.
“I don’t owe you that explanation.” Reuben reached over to a pile of belongings on the counter, grabbed something, and palmed it on the granite top toward me. When he lifted his hand, I was looking at his badge. “This gives me the right to visit a crime scene and investigate at any time of day. You, on the other hand, need to tell me what’s going on.”
“What’s going on,” I said, lifting the disgusting brew to my lips and eyeing him over the mug, “is that I’m drinking coffee and then calling an Uber to go home.”
“Have it your way.” He nodded. “I’m not keeping you here. But I’ll be by later to take you down to the station where we can talk. Or”—he glanced over my shoulder and tipped his chin up in a nonchalant gesture—“we can go into my living room and talk where it’s comfortable.”
That was a nice way of saying I really had no options. I knew that. I also knew when I felt safe and when I felt in danger. I didn’t like talking, so that made me cringe and my stomach curl. But I felt safe here. That was a different feeling. One that didn’t come around too often. And I would never admit it to Reuben—especially after tonight—but I was never in my life so glad that the man staring at me through my windshield had been him. Because everything in my gut had been telling me that not far off, and likely out of sight, Sophia’s killer had been watching me too.
I’d acquiredsugar from Reuben for my French roast coffee. It didn’t help, so I pushed the daisy mug away as I perched at his kitchen island, balancing on a wooden stool painted black.
