Gun Shy(37)

My heart sinks when he mentions Jennifer. Of course. Of course.

“Yeah,” I say. “Her brother and I went to school together. Before—well, you know.”

“Before you killed my wife?”

I wince because he’s right. “Yes, sir.”

Damon nods. I glance at Chris, behind him, blending into the scenery like he’s not even here. He’s an unassuming guy, and I guess that’s the point. Can’t have two alpha dogs competing for control. Chris McCallister’s meek and mild temperament makes him the perfect second-in-command.

“Seen Jennifer lately?” Damon presses.

“No, sir.” Do I answer too quickly?

I glance at the toolbox again. It’s in my eyesight, but unless he turns around to face away from me, he won’t see it. Somehow, I don’t think he’ll be letting me out of his sight.

“You look nervous,” Damon says. “You want to think about your answer a little harder?”

It feels suffocating being under his microscope. I’m prideful and full of kick back when somebody chats me, but in this case, I can’t say a damn thing, because he’s justified.

“You nervous because you’re hiding something?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No, sir. Just—I’ve been meaning to come around to your house and talk, is all. To apologize.”

Damon’s jaw tightens. “Don’t do that. Bad idea, kid.”

I haven’t been called a kid in a very long time.

“Yeah,” I agree, letting my eyes drop to the floor.

“You mind if we look around?” Damon asks, glancing around the workshop again. “I mean, we can get a warrant, but that’s a lot of paperwork, and I hate paperwork. Caring for my wife doesn’t really allow a lot of extra time for paperwork, you know what I mean?”

I put the wrench down, picking up a rag as I wipe my oil-soaked hands. “Sure,” I say, a nervous feeling spreading in my chest. “Look at whatever you want. Nothing to hide, here.”

I think about the last time I saw Jennifer. Shit, it was so recent, they’d probably still find traces of her DNA on the shirt I was wearing when she pulled off the road and asked me if I thought she was pretty. Jesus, fuck. I could have saved myself a lot of shit by just telling her to put the car back in gear and fucking drive.

“Anything we might find?” Damon asks, gesturing to Chris to start moving, too. I trail after them, keeping my eye on my toolbox, praying like hell that Damon doesn’t notice the photograph.

“A lot of oil and busted car parts,” I reply, glancing outside.

“What about out back?” Damon asks, following my eyes. I shrug. “A lot of rusted out cars.”

My old Mustang is out there. Shit. They towed it out back here straight after the accident, and it’s never moved from its spot. I only know this because Pike told me, because old Lawrence has been stripping it for spare parts for the better part of a decade.

Damon makes a beeline for the back door, sliding it open and stepping outside. It’s not snowing today, but the cold air that snakes inside is frigid. I want my jacket, but I don’t want to leave the police officers alone in my garage. Before, I would have had no such qualms, but these days, I don’t trust anybody.

I forego a jacket, stepping outside in my overalls, thankful at least that they’ve got long arms to cover my skin. It’s going to be a real bitch here when summer rolls around, and I have to expose my scarred arms, burned in the accident, for all the world to see. The cold bites at me; the cold, and the reality of my situation.

“Would you look at all these cars?” Damon says, almost like he’s impressed by the junkyard afforded by cheap land and a hoarding boss. Most of these heaps are completely useless, should be crushed for scrap, but try telling Lawrence that. Sometimes I think he was deprived of having any toys as a child and he’s making up for it now with this auto graveyard.

“The things you could hide in a place like this,” Damon says, and there’s a painful stab in my gut. It feels like the time I got stabbed in the yard, almost bled out, and spent two weeks in the infirmary while my wound healed. Only there’s no blood this time. Just the sharp realization that I am fucked.

They think I took Jennifer.

THEY THINK I KILLED JENNIFER.

I want to tell them I didn’t, that they’re looking at the wrong guy, but I don’t. Because they haven’t actually accused me of anything. The more I say, the guiltier I’ll look. Then again, if I say nothing, am I making myself look uncooperative?

Fuck.

“I don’t have anything to hide, Sheriff,” I say, my hands shoved in my pockets to ward off the chill, trailing behind him as he pokes his head into old, rusted out car bodies. I start to peel off, hoping he’ll follow me, but of course, he sees exactly what I don’t want him to see.

“Ahh,” he says, his words edged with glass, “the infamous Mustang. It survived, huh?”

“If you call that survived,” I say to the ground. “Yes, sir.”

Damon chuckles, picking up a crowbar that I’ve been using to beat the dents out of the car so I can get on to replacing the twisted chassis.

“The goddamn car that killed my wife,” he says, one hand trailing along her hood, the part that escaped the fire and the impact.