Flame in the Dark (Soulwood #3)(57)

“Nell? Is everything all right? Can I help?”

I made that sound that might be considered laughter, the kind heard in a scary movie about ghosts in an old insane asylum. I sped to the door and grabbed up the cats and raced to the back door, where I shoved them onto the back porch, getting scratched in the process. Set the dampers to burn slow. Slung my gobags over my shoulder and my weapon harness over an arm.

Ben was watching me in befuddlement, and maybe some amusement. I heard Occam’s steady footsteps on the stairs. All three cats started caterwauling at the door, wanting back in.

Ben looked back and forth between the front door and the loud cats and me. “Nell?”

“I’m okay, Ben. I gotta go to work.” I sounded anxious.

“Nell?” He was getting worried. I’d heard that protect the little woman tone before. Usually just before a doting father pulled out a shotgun.

“Where?” I demanded. “Where can we meet for coffee or breakfast tomorrow? When I get off work.” Occam knocked on the door, his lithe frame a darker shadow against the dim daylight of the front window.

Ben looked at the front door and at me standing with all my gear. I could tell he was itching to take the heavy load of gobags off my fragile shoulders. “Pete’s Coffee Shop, downtown on Union?” he asked.

“I’ll be there at seven.”

“You sure?” He meant was I sure about my new visitor not being here to ravish me.

“I’m sure.” I opened the door and tossed my two gobags at Occam. He barely caught them, but when he did, they seemed to weigh nothing. “I’ll be right there,” I said. And I shut the door in his face. Spun so my back was to the door. Ben was so close I nearly touched him when I turned. I pressed my spine to the door.

Ben’s blue eyes were twinkling, but his face looked serious. He lifted a hand to the wig and touched the wobbly messy bun, as if to see if the colorful hair was real. “I’ll see you in the morning, Nell.” He took my shoulders in his hands and gently eased me out of the way. Opened the door, stepped out, and closed the door behind him. Closing me out of the conversation.

Oh. I should have gone out there. Should have stood my ground. Acted tough. I placed my ear against the door like a child listening in on a forbidden adult discussion.

“I’m Ben Aden.”

Occam said nothing for a half dozen of my racing heartbeats. “Occam.” There was a low half growl in his voice.

“You work with our Nellie?”

Our Nellie? That was church-speak, a way to cut off others that were interested in a churchwoman. It was also a claiming. I wasn’t ready to be claimed, not by anyone.

“I work with Special Agent Nell Ingram.”

That! That was better.

“Hmmm.” There was a load of possible meanings in that one syllable. I feared that Ben was about to do something awful. Instead he said mildly, “Well. You have a good day, you hear. Weather’s treacherous.”

I heard Ben’s farm boots tapping down the stairs. Heard his truck door close and the engine turn over. Heard the truck putter smoothly into the distance.

“Nell, you going to stand there all day or you going to open the door?” Occam asked.

I looked around the house. Thinking. The house would be fine unless I was gone more than a couple of days or unless the temperature dropped into the low twenties and stayed there a while. I took a fortifying breath and opened the door. Closed it behind me and locked up. I stuck my chin up and turned to Occam, who looked me over, much as Ben had, from toes to red and purple wig. My chin went up even higher. I threw the tails of the velvet shawl over me and adjusted my winter coat over my arm. “You wanted to talk. We can talk on the way to work.”

“So I’m driving you in?”

“Might as well.” I took the stairs to the ground, my strange heels making it hard to keep my balance on the sleet-slick steps. Over my shoulder I said, “If I’m not spending my off time sleeping on an inflatable mattress, someone can bring me home. Or I can take an Uber. Or maybe my Unit Eighteen vehicle will arrive. Miracles, anyone?”

“Or your boyfriend can drive you back?”

I ignored Occam and got in his car. The inside of the two-door Ford Mustang was still warm. I closed the door. And waited. Because Occam was still on the porch. Sniffing around? Taking in Ben’s scent? Getting catty-possessive? Eventually he followed me and stowed my gear in the small trunk. And got inside. His long legs moved with a grace no human would ever achieve. The door closed, too softly, too controlled. He started the engine and backed around, to pull down the dirt road, down the hill, his long fingers clasping the steering wheel gently, the way he might hold one of my cats.

The sleet had stopped but it had left a thick slick coating on the road. He nursed the pedals. As we dropped elevations, the sleet disappeared into a slush and then into water draining down the culverts and away.

“You seeing Ben Aden?” Occam asked long after we had entered the bumper-to-bumper traffic of Knoxville’s afternoon rush hour.

“That mighta been resolved if you hadn’t arrived so precipitously.”

“So this is my fault?”

“Ain’t nothing nobody’s fault, Occam,” I said, sliding into church-speak despite myself.

“So are you seeing Ben Aden?”

“I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow.”