“What we do or don’t do,” Owen said, holding up the note, “has nothing to do with this asshole.”
“I think the asshole sees it differently.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He was angry. I could see it in his eyes and the tension in his shoulders.
I, in contrast, was doing that thing where I decide I’m not going to have any feelings. “I felt my best option at the time was distance.” I sounded like a robot, even to myself.
“We need to figure out who this is.”
“What do you think I’ve been trying to do?”
But his mind was racing. “We need to check security camera footage. We need to set some kind of trap. We need to question all the guys—”
“No. We’re not questioning anybody.”
“But how can we find him if we—”
“I don’t know. But the last thing I’m doing is telling the whole crew.”
“But we—”
“And stop saying ‘we’! This is not your problem. This is my problem.”
“But I—”
“Cut it out!” I snapped. “Stop trying to rescue me! I can rescue my own damn self.”
Owen blinked. Then closed his mouth. Then nodded. “Okay,” he said. Then he handed the note back to me. “I won’t rescue you,” he said.
“Great. Perfect. Thank you.”
“Just let me point out one thing.”
“What?”
“You’re going to need a ride home.”
ON THE DRIVE,Owen told me he had a cousin with a wrecker service. “He’ll handle it for you,” he said.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“He’ll pick up your car, and get you some new tires, and bring it to you. I already texted him.”
“I’m not sure I can afford new tires.”
“He’s not going to charge you.”
“For the tires?”
“For any of it.”
“Why wouldn’t he charge me?”
Owen smiled. “He owes me a few favors. More than a few.”
I didn’t respond to that, just leaned back against the seat, trying not to let my mind drift back to the last time I’d been in the rookie’s truck with him.
“Let’s talk about something else,” I said, when the silence had gone on too long.
