The Birthday List(50)

“Yep.” I popped the p just like Poppy did. “Which means if you’re looking for me anytime before eight or after five, I’ll be in this room.”

I had no fucking clue how long it would take me to start weeding through camera footage in my free time. A month? Maybe two?

But for Poppy, I’d do anything. I’d sit in this damn room and leave work every night with a headache just for the chance to give her some closure.

Because closure was the one thing she craved as much as love. She was desperate for someone to tell her it was okay to start living again. And since she sure as fuck wasn’t going to get it from Jamie’s parents, I’d do my best to give it to her myself.

These last two weeks, she’d built a brick wall between us. When I’d go to the restaurant for dinner, she’d be too busy in the kitchen to sit with me for more than ten minutes. When I’d text to check in, she’d respond with short answers.



Me: How was your day?

Poppy: Just fine.



Me: Do you care if I come by the restaurant for dinner?

Poppy: Sure. That’s fine.



Me: Are you doing okay?

Poppy: I’m fine.



Fine. Things were not fucking fine. But if she thought she could shut me out, Poppy Maysen had something to learn.

I wasn’t going anywhere.

I’d known going into this thing with her that the road would be rough. That she had more to overcome than I could possibly imagine. I had to give her time. So while waiting for her to realize that I was the new constant in her life, I’d been here, watching video footage.

And fixing up that old truck.

I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed tinkering on classic cars. How much fun I’d had as a kid working on old beaters with my dad. Besides my brief encounters with Poppy, that truck had given me something to look forward to at the end of each long day.

I’d ended up taking it to my parents’ house because Dad had better tools and a bigger garage. He had been more than happy to part with the garage space, thrilled to jump into the project with me. Mom was happy because I’d been there almost every night for the past two weeks.

Every night except when Poppy had been there for her ukulele lessons.

Those nights, I’d given her some space.

“You should get out of here.” Matt shut off the TV.

“I think I will.” Leaving sounded like a damn good idea. I needed some time away from this room. Some time to think about the case. “See you Monday.”

Matt nodded as we both stood and walked back to our desks in the bull pen. I didn’t waste a second grabbing my keys, sunglasses and wallet from my desk and getting the hell out of the station.

The minute I pulled out of the parking lot, my headache started to ease. I debated going home, but when I passed a convenience store, I had a better idea. With a cold six-pack in the passenger seat, I drove to my parents’ house to spend the evening working on Jamie Maysen’s truck.

It was still early—only four in the afternoon—when I got to Mom and Dad’s, which meant I had the garage to myself. Dad wasn’t home yet and Mom was teaching in her studio. So I let myself in, stripped off my gun and badge, then traded my Bozeman PD polo for a plain white T-shirt I’d stashed in the back of my truck. I popped the top off a beer and got to work, letting the clank of tools on metal drown out the silent gunshots from the murder video I’d watched too many times.

Three hours later, I’d completely gutted the interior of the cab. The bench seat had been taken out, along with the floorboards. The steering wheel and door panels were gone. I’d even removed the radio, jockey box and driving gauges. The only thing staying was the black dashboard, which was in good shape but needed a thorough cleaning and conditioning.

With the inside basically a shell, I started on the smaller items, using a screwdriver to take out the driver’s-side sun visor. I’d just loosened one screw when the visor fell open and a picture dropped to the floor.

I set aside the screwdriver and wiped my hands on my jeans before lifting up the photo.

It was a picture of Poppy and Jamie from college. Jamie had his arms around Poppy’s chest, his chin resting on her shoulder. They were both smiling at the camera as they stood in a crowded row at the MSU football stadium.

Damn. She looked happy. So fucking happy.

My heart beat hard as I studied Poppy’s face. She hadn’t changed much since college. Some of the youth she had in the picture was gone—and pain had erased some of her innocence—but she was just as beautiful now as she had been back then.

Just as beautiful, but nowhere near as happy.

I wanted to see that kind of raw joy on her face again. I wanted to be the man that put it there.

Me. Not Jamie.

“Hey.”

My eyes swung to the garage door. So lost in my inspection of her picture, I hadn’t heard the woman herself walk inside. But there she was. My pretty Poppy. The sun limned her in an amber halo, and my heart did that weird double-beat thing before I found my voice. “Hi.”

“Sorry if I startled you.” She walked toward the far wall where all of Dad’s tool benches were lined up.

“It’s okay.” I rounded the hood of the truck to join her, holding out the photo. “Here. I just found this.”

She took the photo and smiled. “Look how young we were. This seems like a lifetime ago.” With one finger, she touched Jamie’s face, then set the picture aside on a workbench.