Bobby was taking his belt off.
“What is happening right now?” I asked.
“I’m taking a bath with you.”
“Why?”
And because he was Bobby, and because this was the kind of thing he could say, he said, “Because I miss you, and I want to be with you.” He made a face as he unbuttoned his shirt. “And because I smell like a McDonald’s kitchen.”
“More like a KFC,” I said. He looked at me, and I mumbled, “Uh, just guessing.” In an attempt at a recovery, I said, “Somebody needs to tell Tripple he has to clean out those cars. It doesn’t matter if he’s retiring; it’s not fair to the rest of you.”
“Itold him,” Bobby said as his trousers came off. He was wearing gray boxers. Gray. That was it. They didn’t even have cute pink stitching or a llama or one single video game reference on them. Admittedly, my outrage was low because I was focused on, um, other things. “I think pretty much everybody has told him. He’d stay late to do a deep clean, he said. I guess we’ll see if it makes a difference.”
“Maybe he’ll buy a Taco Bell air freshener.”
Bobby did not look amused, but I wasn’t too bothered, because that was the exact moment he was letting his shirt slide off him. I mean, my God. It was like the man had never evenheardof cake. I hadn’t realized somebody could be cute whenthey took off their socks, but Bobby was so focused, so intent, that my heart exploded inside my chest. The boxers went next. And yes, since I know you’re all wondering, he folded his clothes. I didn’t pay too much attention to that, either. I had my eyes on other things.
When he straightened up, he caught the look on my face and grinned. He flicked water at me as he climbed into the tub, and my cries of outrage didn’t seem to bother him as he settled at the other end. It was a strange sensation, our legs slotting together under the water. The texture of his skin felt different—not that I’m complaining.
Then the grin dropped off his face, and he leaned forward, and in a voice that could only politely be described as curt said, “What’s that?”
(Let me tell you: my mind didn’t go to a very mature place.)
But then I processed his tone, and I said, “What’s what?”
“That bruise on your chest that looks like someone stepped on you.” He started to rise, water streaming off him. “You said you stepped off a curb—”
“Bobby, wait!” I grabbed his hand. Water rolled down my wrist, cooling as it went, and I tugged. “Sit down. It wasn’t Keme. Come on, sit down.”
He sank into the water again, but if anything, his expression got even more grim. “What happened?”
I realized that, in the chaos of the day, I hadn’t told him about Woody Vance. So, I told him now—the strangeness of Vance hiding out in Mrs. Knight’s dad’s place, and his barely veiled anger at Channelle, even though she was already dead. The story about how they’d met, and how she’d lied to him—and, in his opinion at least, how she’d used him. And the sudden burst of violence at the end.
“We’re going to the station,” Bobby said. “You’re going to press charges.”
“Um, well, maybe—”
A glacial calculation happened on Bobby’s face. And then, coolly, he said, “Fine.”
“Oh no. No way. You’re not going over there and beating him up.”
“I wasn’t planning on beating him up.”
“Bobby, you’re missing the point.”
“I’m missing the point? That’s battery, Dash.” His voice tightened in a way I wasn’t familiar with. “He put his hands on you.”
“I know, I know. I’m okay, though. And if you want me to press charges, I will.”
“I do.”
“Okay. We can do that.” The rare burst of anger from Bobby—even as controlled as it was—made me scramble for a way to redirect the conversation. “Doesn’t it seem strange, though? I mean, think about it. He tracks his ex-wife down across state lines. And he’s in such a hurry, he drives up here in his take-home car, even though I’m sure that’s against regulations. He’s not in Hastings Rock for more than a day before JT dies. And then Channelle dies. And we know this guy is angry and violent. In my mind, he’s a way better candidate for a killer than Foster.”
Bobby was silent for several long seconds. When he spoke, his voice still held some of that tension, and I had the sense he was fighting to relax it. “A psychological profile is kind of like motive, Dash. It might help. But it might not. In the end, it comes down to putting someone in the room, so to speak. Opportunity is a much bigger deal. And we know Foster and Channelle were having an affair. We can place him in her motel room. He stole her necklace. That’s a lot going against him.”
“I know. And I know it’s just more lazy armchair psychology, but I don’t think Foster’s a killer. He’s a waste of space, sure. He’s a loser. There’s definitely some meanness to him—he’sdefinitely a bully, and he’ll pick on people he thinks he can push around.”
“I would have loved to see his face when Keme knocked him into next year,” Bobby said, and the edge in his voice was blunted by what sounded like amusement.
