That earned me a glare, but I was pretty sure my point had been made.
“That was stupid, Elliot.”
“Am I supposed to stay in the house for the rest of my life? Or only go out when someone can act as my fucking escort?”
“It’s been less than twenty-four hours,” I pointed out. “You could give the police a chance to figure out who did this.”
“And it’s unlikely that they’ll come back within twenty-four hours, especially with all the fucking yellow tape still out there.”
This time he was the one with the valid point.
I was trying to figure out what to say when the timer on the dryer went off. “I need to go pull up the plaster casts,” I told him, turning to reclaim my clothes from the dryer.
He didn’t follow me.
My hands wereboth numb and yet somehow still painful with cold by the time I managed to get up all the plaster casts—two sets of tire tracks and multiple boot prints. From what I could tell, there were at least three different sets of boots across the dozen or so prints I’d pulled—although I needed to do a better lab analysis to be certain.
Three might be better than a dozen, but it was still three against Elliot’s one, and I didn’t much like those odds. At least Smith had texted me to let me know that he had the highway patrol in place and that the county would be sending someone through the ATV trails at least once or twice a day.
I brought the casts back into the house, carefully packing them in a box I’d kept for that purpose. I’d have to call Henryand the Post Office today to get permission to print their tires, as well. I didn’t think either would match the set in Elliot’s driveway, as the mailbox was down by the road, and Elliot had told us he hadn’t gotten a package. He’d also said he hadn’t seen Henry, either, but it was hypothetically possible that Henry had knocked while Elliot was working, and he hadn’t heard.
As I was packing up, periodically stopping to try to blow feeling back into my hands, Elliot came down the hall with one of the dozen or so canvas tote bags he usually used for groceries.
“Here,” he said.
I frowned at the bag, confused. “What is it?” I asked him.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then shrugged. “More tea. A cream that Henry makes out of frankincense, myrrh, and hot pepper oil.” He paused a moment, then mumbled, “Mittens.”
I stared at him, confused. For a man who essentially wanted nothing to do with me, he was going out of his way to be generous and kind. And yes, I know he didn’t say he wanted nothing to do with me, but he had said he didn’t want a relationship—wasn’t readyfor one—with me. Yet here he was giving me tea and capsaicin cream (which is supposed to be good for arthritis) and mittens. I told myself to be polite. “Thank you,” I said, a bit awkwardly.
Elliot nodded. “Are you going?” he asked.
“As soon as I get packed up, yeah.”
He nodded again, his mouth pressed in a line. I wasn’t sure what that meant.
“Did you—want me to stay?” I asked him, realizing that he might have asked because he didn’t want to be here alone. He’d argued against having police on his property, so Smith had suggested I not tell him about the patrols.
“You have work to do,” came his answer. “I shouldn’t keep you. Thanks for staying.” And then he turned and walked back down the hall.
I took it as the dismissal it clearly was, pulled on my shoes, then put the straps of the tote on my shoulder along with the heavy kit bag, picked up the box full of casts, and left.
22
Seth Mays
Thank you again for the cream.
Please tell Henry it helps.
Elliot Crane
You’re welcome.
Glad it’s helping.
I wincedas I re-read the exchange, which was painfully polite. The kind of thing two coworkers might send each other. Or the kind of thing you might send a great-aunt you didn’t know particularly well.
