No Perfect Hero(97)

“Hello?” I gasp into the phone, swiping without even looking.

“Hey, Haley,” Stewart says cheerfully, and my stomach churns.

Frick, I don't have time for this.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I pace toward the door. “Stewart, I can’t talk right now, I’m looking for—”

“Tara?” he finishes without prompting. “She’s right here at the shop.”

Huh?

I stop in my tracks, rooted to the spot, darting a curiously watching Ms. Wilma a wide-eyed look. It’s Stewart, I mouth. He has Tara.

Then out loud I manage, “What...how?”

“Aw, your little scamp walked all the way into town on her lonesome. Came to get her pencils, I guess.”

I groan. Goddammit.

With Warren getting arrested and Bress’ murder, I’d totally forgotten I’d promised to ask Stewart if he’d taken them out of the car. “Jesus, my bad. I’m really sorry.”

“Don't fret. It’s no problem. You want to drop by and pick her up?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I flash Ms. Wilma the OK sign. She looks confused but smiles, though I’m already turning away, racing for the door. “Listen, Stewart...I’m sorry about your friend.”

He sounds puzzled. “My friend?”

Crap. I’m just stepping in it everywhere. “You didn’t hear about Bress? I’d thought you two were close.”

There’s such a long pause it makes me stop, frowning. There's that intuition, prickling like a cactus again.

Stewart’s mournful voice sounds almost exaggerated as he says, “Yes, ma'am. I suppose I hadn’t processed yet. It’s still so new and...raw.”

“I’m sorry if I was insensitive. Or if Tara intruded.”

“You’re fine. I promise. And honestly, it’s nice to have a bright little distraction around this man-cave.”

I smile faintly. “I need to hang up, but I’m getting in the car now. I’ll take her off your hands real soon.”

“No problem. But you might want to have a talk with the little doll about wandering off...”

“Oh, we’ll talk all right. She scared the living crap out of me.”

Stewart answers with an indulgent chuckle. “See you in a few, Haley.”

“Sure.” I hang up the phone, stopping at the driver’s side door of the Mustang, just looking down at the screen.

Something still feels...weird.

If Tara walked all the way to Stewart’s, why didn’t I see her on the drive back with Warren?

Was it just bad timing?

Or is this warning call screaming in the back of my mind onto something?

But I have to go. I can’t leave my niece in a freaking car shop alone.

So I jump into my Mustang and go careening out onto the highway toward town.

Only, I don’t make it more than six or seven blocks before the Mustang abruptly sputters, coughs, and grinds to a halt so hard the entire thing shakes enough to rattle my teeth.

It’s different from the other times it’s died. That was more like a sort of gentle tapering, as if it just slumped off to sleep. This feels like a death rattle.

“Damn you, not now!” I yell, banging my fist on the steering wheel.

There’s barely enough momentum for me to get it off the road so I won’t block what little traffic there is. Then, that’s it. All she's got. The car just rolls to a stop.

Swearing myself blue, I slump forward and thunk my forehead against the steering wheel.

So much for that quick fix lasting for a week or two.

Fuck it. If Tara walked to Stewart’s, I can walk the rest of the way, and I can ask Stewart for a ride and a tow back to Charming Inn.

But just as I’m getting out of the car, Stewart’s massive monster truck comes rumbling toward me, the sun glimmering off it in heat waves as it appears out of nowhere. What the...

He eases up alongside the Mustang, leaning one arm outside of the window, offering me an almost sly half-smile. “Looks like you could use a ride. Lucky thing we’re going to the same place, huh?”

Something about his disarming smile freezes my blood today.

I eye him, keeping the Mustang between us. “I don't get it. How'd you know?”

He shrugs, lightly slapping his hand against the side of the truck before pushing the door open and getting out. “Premonition, sugar. They always said my grandpa had it, and I guess it rubbed off.”

I'm silent, almost trembling, wondering if this whole thing is a dream.

Then Stewart bursts out laughing. “Shit, girl, I'm just pulling your tail. Actually, I thought I’d head out to meet you partway. Damn good thing I did, considering the damage.”

My brows press deeper against my skull. “Why, though? It’s such a short distance...”

Stewart spreads his hands. His smile is a mask now, not quite reaching his flat, cold, brown eyes. “And yet here you are, stranded.”

God, this definitely isn’t adding up.

I peer past him, into the cab of the truck, but it’s empty. “You didn’t bring Tara?”

“She’s safe at the garage. A few of my boys are keeping an eye on her,” he answers too easily. “She’s happy as a clam, just painting away. Did her one better than those pencils. We had some old poster paint lying around, and now she’s got a pretty good start on a career as an impressionist.”