Paul Graves. Spokane, WA. Sixteen minutes ago.
I make a small, gleeful noise.
“What?” Rhys demands.
“Find My updated. He’s in Spokane. At…a Holiday Inn Express.”
Rhys groans. “That’s more than six hours from here.”
“But he’s not moving,” I say, watching the dot that is Paul. “He’s probably checked in for the night, right?”
Rhys considers. “Makes sense.”
“So we could catch him. Tonight.”
He’s shaking his head before all the words are out of my mouth. “Eden, it’s after seven already?—”
“I want my quilts.”
“I know you’re frustrated, and you need a win, but taking risks with our safety isn’t?—”
“You don’t have to come with me,” I say. “You can drop me at a rental car place, and I’ll drive myself.” I tap in a search for the nearest rental place, which looks like it’s in Aberdeen, a half hour away—and basically on the way to Spokane. It won’t take Rhys too far out of his way back to Rush Creek, either. I hold up the phone. “Drop me here.”
“No.”
His voice is flat. Hard. Nonnegotiable. The voice that won Teller’s arguments.
“Then I’ll get an Uber to take me to the nearest rental car place.”
“Absolutely not. You are not driving all night. You probably slept like crap last night, you woke up at the crack of dawn to get ready for a wedding, you got your heart broken, we spent something like seven hours on the road if you count those disgusting sandwiches, you probably now have food poisoning?—”
“I don’t have food poisoning.”
“—it’s not safe for you to get back on the road and drive six hours in the middle of the night. And he’s notworthit.”
I cross my arms. “I need those quilts.”
He stares at me, eyes like truth X-rays, until I look away. And when I look back at him, something has changed in his expression. The stubbornness has gone out of it, replaced with something almost…soft.
I’m probably imagining it.
“Eden,” he says. His voice has softened, too. I’ve never heard this version of him, but I imagine it’s the voice he uses when he’s trying to talk his own clients into a more reasonable position. And I don’t want to wait for what he’s about to say, maybe because I’m the tiniest bit afraid that he’ll actually convince me. And I don’t want to be convinced. I want to fly through the dark night in a fast car, fueled by righteous anger. I want cheesy pop music and the promise of my quilts and a purpose that will hold all the humiliation and sadness at bay.
I tilt my phone open and tap on the Uber app.
“Eden,” he says. “What are you doing?”
“Ordering an Uber,” I say. “Getting a rental car. Making sure Mari can cover the shop as long as needed. Going to get my quilts.”
He closes his eyes. There’s a beat of silence while I pause with my finger suspended over my car options, and I can hear both of us breathing, a little hard. Then he opens his eyes.
“Don’t order the fucking Uber.” His voice is both gentle and resigned. “I’ll drive.” His eyes narrow on me. “But we’re eating dinner first, and you’re sleeping in the car.”
9
Rhys
“What are you doing?” Eden asks a few minutes later.
