Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(8)

He stared at the oblong cylinder in his palm, saying nothing. I let him think.

He looked up. “I understand,” he finally said.

“Good.” I put the gun away.

“So in the bar tonight, all those lies about wanting me, flirting … You were planning this the whole time, weren’t you?”

“I didn’t lie. I don’t lie. I didn’t tell you a single word that was untrue.”

“You hit on me.”

“No. I let you hit on me. And I let you make assumptions about what I wanted.”

“Why’d you have to hurt me, then?”

“You put your girlfriend in the hospital. What happened to you is fair. Your injuries.”

“So why come back here?”

“The two parts are a system, Robert. If I just hurt you, that might make you angrier. If I just pulled a gun, you might not take me seriously. This way, you do.”

“How did Angela find you?”

“That’s not the point. The point is that I found you. It’s not about her anymore. It’s about us—me and you. That’s what matters now.”

“So you’ve done stuff like this before.”

I didn’t answer him.

“You must think I’m a real scumbag.”

“I’m sure I’ve met better and I’m positive I’ve met worse.”

“I did love her. Maybe I still do.”

“Okay.”

“What if you hadn’t been able to take me? If I’d gotten to the kitchen, grabbed a knife?”

A door opens. A step forward onto the sunlit floor. A sticky iron smell. Dusty sunlight along the wall. Another step.

“I don’t like knives. A knife would not have helped resolve things.”

He took that in.

“Any other questions?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then this concludes our business.” I stood. “There’s more coffee, if you want. I left the pot on just in case. Get some rest. And then go meet a new girl. Be nice to her. Or enjoy the single life. Not my business. Sound okay?”

He spoke the single word somberly. “Okay.”

“You won’t see me again. Not unless you try to find her. Then you’ll see me once more.”

I left him there, looking blankly at the broken coffee table, and walked outside into the night.





5


On the freeway heading north, I slowed at my Berkeley exit, then changed my mind and accelerated past it. I wasn’t tired. The drive from Oakland to Bolinas was normally about an hour and a half. On the Aprilia, late at night, no traffic, I could do it in under an hour. I worked my way onto the 580 and headed north, taking the Richmond Bridge over the Bay. Loving the night, the speed, the wind. Across the water, I passed the bulk of San Quentin looming over the Marin coast.

Trying not to think about what I always thought about when passing the pale stone walls.

Who I always thought about.

I twisted up and then down around Mount Tamalpais, leaning into hairpin curves, headlight lancing the night. At Stinson Beach I picked up my speed for the last few miles as the road straightened. Bolinas had changed a lot since my childhood. Mainly, the homes had all gotten about tenfold more expensive, the hippies and artists joined by millionaire tech boys wanting to play surf bum for the weekend. A crowd that didn’t think much of slapping down a couple of million bucks for a little place by the ocean that would have sold for thirty or forty grand only a few decades before. But the town was still tiny, and proudly held on to its original character despite the unrequested changes.

I turned off the main street onto a narrow, curving road that led up to the high bluffs above the ocean. Halfway up the road I got off the bike. Cut the engine. Walked quietly up to a blue house that was just visible in the dim predawn light. A small, single-story house. A neat brick walkway bisecting the clipped grass of the lawn. I noticed a child’s tricycle had been left in the yard. I bit my lip as I imagined a kid pedaling frenetically around the path. I could hear the crunching sound the plastic wheels would make, rolling over the pavement. Could hear the happy laughter.

A cheerful blue house.

I stood there looking at the house. No lights on. No one awake. The night quiet. I could hear the waves below. Felt that same choking feeling I always got.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to the house. “I’m so, so sorry.”





6


“Nikki, yes? Nikki Griffin? Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?”

“Myself. Like anything in particular?”

“Wherever you’d like to start.”

“That sounds like a trick question. Like a job interview.”

“There’s no trick. Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

“Okay. My brother and I grew up in Bolinas. My parents were the Bohemian California type, drove down to the Fillmore for shows on the weekends, weed and wine and bonfires on the beach.”

“Are you close with your brother?”

“I try to look out for him.”

“And you are close to your parents?”

“Can we talk about something else?”

“Of course. May I ask you something, Nikki?”