Page 49 of Road Queens
“Why?” He swung around and speared her with a stare. “You barely know me.”
Good question.“I don’t want anything bad to happen to anyone,” she lied. She hoped any number of awful things would happen to Jeff Manners, and had cherished the same hope for Cassandra’s father. On that point, at least, her wish had been granted.
“To sum up, thanks for your help, but we are no longer in need of your, uh, help.”Good God. Could not have sounded dimmerorless confident.“So ... goodbye?”
Nooooo! Why did I make that a question?
He was still looking at her. “I haven’t really helped yet. Which isn’t to say I don’t want to. But you’re neck deep in a confusing mess, and I hate confusing messes.”
“Then stay out of my basement. And I’m knee deep at most,” she protested. “Besides, there’s nothing confusing about a mysterious dead guy turning up in the wake of various domestic disasters.”
His gaze sharpened. “‘Wake’? Is that a joke?”
“Not that I know of.” She thought about it for another few seconds. “No. Not a joke.”
“Because Franklin Donahue was found in the river.”
“The river” usually meant one particular river. In Prescott, it meant two: the town was located at the confluence of the Saint Croix and the Mississippi. The rivers were so different, the sparkling deep-blue Saint Croix against the Big Muddy Mississippi, that if you were in or on the water you could see the line of demarcation.
She frowned, processing. “He drowned?”
“No. Shot in the back of the head, then dumped.”
Amanda tried to picture Cassandra shooting someone, lugging a corpse to a boat she would’ve had to procure in advance, motoring to a desolate spot (harder to find than you might think), then tossing said corpse overboard, not caring where it washed up. And alone for all of it.
“There’s no way Cassandra did that.”
“Because she hates boats. And the water.”
“Well. Yes.” Cassandra had no use for rivers, ponds, lakes, beaches, creeks, streams, brooks, boats, or the accoutrements of the same. And she cordially despised fishing. “How did you know that?”
“People in town talk about her.”
“Well, yeah, but they’re bound to—”
“A lot.”
“Really?”Not sure why I’m surprised. Constant, speculative gossip is the nature of small towns.
He had given up on military history and was now standing in front of her. She thanked God for the counter between them. Otherwise, who knew what foolish sexual escapade she might pull him into?
His head was tilted, and he was studying her like she was the most interesting map in the world. “Didn’t you know? You guys are legends. People are going to be talking about you a decade from now, even if Operation Starfish is done.”
“There’s no ‘if.’ Operation Starfish is done.”
“As you say.”
“My point,” she continued, and then stopped.What was my point again?
“I know you don’t want to talk about Operation Starfish. And we don’t have to. But we could start with something easier. How did you guys even meet?”
“Digging into the background leading to Operation Starfish is still getting me to talk about Operation Starfish.”
Sean shook his head. “Hey, I’m saying this as a fan, not an investigator. You’re all pretty different, right down to your bikes.”
“We met a bazillion years ago,” she replied. “And it’s nothing to do with Franklin Donahue.”
“Oh, so his name you remember, but not mine?” he teased.
