And because he was Bobby, that was exactly what he meant.
It took me about five seconds of childish petulance before I could mumble, “I don’t want to fight with you either.”
“I know you know how to take care of yourself—”
“Then you know I’ll be fine!”
He waited a beat before finishing, “—but you could have gotten killed last night. This person, whoever they are, has already killed two people. They almost killed a third last night.” I opened my mouth to make my point again about how I hadmanaged to stay alive, but Bobby spoke over me. “Dash, it’s not a question of knowing how to handle yourself. Bad things can happen to anyone, no matter how good they are at taking care of themselves. Deputies and police officers and federal law enforcement officers—bad things can happen toanyone. And if something happened to you—” He cut off. His hands opened and closed against his thighs. He always kept his nails trimmed, almost blunt. I could see little crescents where they’d bitten into his palms.
Bobby has a lot in common with the superheroes. He’s strong. He’s fast. His moral compass points true north. (No wavering, not even when you could skip leg day and nobody would notice.) And I’ve mentioned the abs. He also is a littletooresponsible sometimes; I honestly think that at some level, he believes he could fix anything if he only tried hard enough.
“Come here,” I said. I gathered his hands in mine. I kissed his knuckles. I looked up at him and said, “I love you.”
He nodded, but he didn’t meet my eyes.
“I promise I will make safe, responsible decisions. Just like if I had a tiny Deputy Bobby with angel wings sitting on my shoulder.”
His laugh was short, almost more of a cough, as though he was clearing his throat. “I’d find that reassuring, but I know about the little Fox with the red horns who sits on your other shoulder.”
“You can’t lock me up and keep me safe,” I said. “We don’t know that I’m the target. It might be Keme. Even if it’s not, I’m worried about him. He’s my—what’s the word when he’s kind of your foster son, but he’s also weirdly your older brother, and he pulled your hair so hard one time it actually made you cry, oh, and he’s part wolf?”
Bobby’s eyes finally found mine. He freed his hands from my grip, and he brushed them over my hair. “Please,” he said in a low voice. “Please be careful.”
“I will.”
He considered me for another moment, still brushing back my hair. “It took me a long time to find you. And it took us even longer to get it right. I do not have the energy to go through all that again if you get yourself killed.”
“Bobby!”
That big, goofy grin flashed out. He kissed me, gave me what had to be the most weirdly endearing tug on my ear, and left.
I decided I liked him better when he didn’t make jokes.
I took my time getting ready for the day. A long shower, because last night’s cold seemed to have settled into my bones. My new favorite hoodie (it said CHAOTIC GAY on the front, and honestly, nothing has described me better). Comfy joggers. My Mexico 66s. I was ready for the day.
There was no sign of Indira in the kitchen, not even the breakfast she usually left me. Maybe it was because it was still so ungodly early. (Nine o’clock.) I grabbed the keys to the Pilot, told myself for the millionth time I was going to figure out how to buy a new car, and hit the road.
The worst of the storm had broken up as it moved inland, but the day was still gray and droopy. The clouds looked like someone had done them in grease stick, and precipitation hung in the air in an unpleasant, lingering way that wasn’t quite mist but wasn’t quite a drizzle. (Also, it was super annoying if you had to wear glasses.) The air was fresh, but it had that waterlogged smell that came after really heavy rains, as though the entire world was beginning to mildew.
It was a Tuesday, so I decided—to paraphrase Paul—to hope against hope. (Fox said that once when I made my New Year’s resolution to pump iron every day, and even though it wassuperrude, I had to admit I liked the sound of it.) I started at Hastings Rock High.
Big surprise: Keme wasn’t there.
Also, the principal wanted me to pay some of Keme’s textbook fines.
And apparently there was a question about some vandalism.
And he gave me back one of my credit cards that Keme had tried to use at the lunch line.
It wasn’t agreatvisit.
I tried the RV park next. It was on my list of places to snoop—uh, investigate—ever since I’d seen those tenant account statements in Channelle’s motel room. And I wanted to talk to Foster and September about their eviction and JT putting their belongings into storage.
When I got to the RV park, though, it looked like the sheriff had had the same idea. Two cruisers were parked in front of September’s little camper, and farther down the street, a bedraggled Deputy Dahlberg was holding a newspaper over her head, trying to protect her hair, as she knocked on the door of a mammoth RV. (She’d told me she was thinking about changing it—her hair, I mean. She’d loved getting the Rachel, but she thought maybe it was time. I chose not to weigh in.)
It didn’t seem like I’d get a chance to talk to Foster or September anytime soon, and I didn’t think it was a good idea to poke around the RV park while the deputies were canvassing it. The sheriff—and Bobby—might both be incredibly patient and understanding people, but even they had their limits.
The Otter Slide was still closed (even if it had been open, I was pretty sure Seely would have called me if she’d seen Keme). I drove by the timber yard with a sick feeling in my stomach. Keme had slept here occasionally, back before he’d started staying at Hemlock House more or less full-time. It was hard to look at the yard, with its acres of bare, hardpack dirt and logsand heavy machinery and office trailers, and think that a boy had slept here, and not feel like you—along with everyone else in the world—had failed somehow.
