Serious Moonlight(39)

“Should we trail him?” Daniel whispered. “He might be headed home. We could see where he lives. How far could it be? Those mutts don’t look like they were bred for long-distance walks.”

“I don’t know. . . . I think it’s a bad idea. What if—”

A man stepped out from a shadow at the edge of the park. A uniformed cop. Darke stopped and talked to him. One of the bulldogs was pulling on his leash, trying to get around the cop’s legs. Holy crap, those dogs looked mean. Like they could tear someone’s hand off.

Suddenly the bulldog lunged and began barking. His brother joined in, a chest-deep cacophony that sent my adrenaline soaring: the dogs were barking at us.

For one terror-filled moment, I pictured the bulldogs breaking their leashes and running to attack us. But it was so much worse: the author and the cop both turned around, and Darke pointed in our direction.

“Oh, shit!” Daniel whispered loudly. “We gotta leave. Now!”

The cop shouted something at us that I didn’t catch because we’d turned around in tandem and strode away. Not fast enough to be running—that would look suspicious. But fast enough that my calves burned, trying to keep up with Daniel’s longer stride. I didn’t know where we were going. Wasn’t his car in the opposite direction?

We crossed the street and walked half a block before we could head around a building and catch our breath. Was the cop following, or had we lost him? I didn’t hear anyone coming. Maybe we were being ridiculous.

“We weren’t doing anything illegal,” I said, more to myself than to Daniel.

“I think he might have seen my face. Fuck,” Daniel swore.

“The cop?”

“No, Darke.” Daniel seemed even more upset than I felt. “This was stupid. I’m not even sure what we accomplished by coming here.”

We’d learned nothing about Darke. Possibly blew our cover. Nearly got attacked by rabid bulldogs. And, oh, that’s right: our terrible attempt at sex that I’d been desperately trying to forget? It was now back out in the open and more painful than ever.

If we’d accomplished anything, it was that we’d dug up a giant pit of misery beneath our own feet and both fallen inside.

My worries didn’t diminish when he drove me back downtown in silence. No David Bowie. No arguing. No nothing. It wasn’t until couple of hours later, when I was back at home and getting ready for bed, that a light shone from the top of our proverbial misery pit. I got a text from Daniel. It said: TRUTH OR LIE, BONUS QUESTION:

Do u think we’d be together now if we never went to my car that day?

I reread it several times and finally typed out my answer:

I’m not sure.

Then I turned off my phone and went to sleep. Let him figure out if I was lying.

Maybe I’d need to figure that out myself.





“I don’t mind a reasonable amount of trouble.”

—Sam Spade, The Maltese Falcon (1930)





13




* * *



After the disastrous trip to Kerry Park, nothing more was said about that night. Not about our emotional talk before the man and his bulldogs showed up and not about his Truth or Lie text—or my reply, which he never answered. Our communication breakdown was helped along by the fact that our work shifts didn’t line up the next two nights. I was both relieved and bothered, because it felt like we’d left everything unfinished, and that made my thoughts go in strange directions.

Maybe he regretted what he’d said. Maybe after my reply to his text, he decided none of it mattered and perhaps I wasn’t worth the trouble after all.

Why did that make me feel panicky? Why could I not stop thinking about all of it?

And worrying.

And wishing we could talk more about it.

No way was I bringing any of this up with Grandpa, and later, when I tried getting advice from Aunt Mona, she was no help. She was too busy planning a date with waste-of-space Leon Snodgrass, who had convinced her to let him take her out on the Spirit of Mona. I hated him and his dumb yacht, and I couldn’t understand why she was falling for something so saccharine.

Just when I was starting to go a little crazy about everything, Daniel texted out of the blue to remind me about Darke’s weekly visit to the hotel and proposed that we pick back up on our “case,” as he called it. I was thrilled. We were still partners! I hadn’t driven him away. It was surprising how happy this made me. How relieved I felt.

Daniel and Birdie the couple might be a failure. But Nick and Nora the detective team were still okay.

After a couple of back-and-forths, we decided we would try to stealthily listen in on what happened inside Darke’s room. No bulldogs. No cops.

He suggested we meet up somewhere outside the hotel before work tonight, and we decided the ferry terminal was as good a place as any.

On my way to the Bainbridge ferry terminal, I stopped to buy a warm cinnamon roll from my second-favorite bakery on the island. The woman who came up with the Cinnabon recipe lived here on the island, so it seemed only fair that we had amazing cinnamon rolls. I originally intended to get one for me, but at the last second I found myself thinking of Daniel and asking for two. I carried them like wounded birds nested inside their mini bakery box and headed toward the terminal.

It was only a few minutes before the ferry departed—early-evening rush hour for commuters—and I was cutting it close. If I was going to witness Raymond Darke at his usual Tuesday check-in at seven p.m., this was the last boat I could take. I hurried inside the waiting area, preparing to sprint up the ramp—