Chapter 2
two
DREW
I shouldn’t be here.
I know it.
But it’s not the first time I’ve sat in my truck—or a Sheriff’s cruiser—outside Evergreen Lake’s library.
I don’t know what it is about Georgie Bookman that has my protective instincts standing up on full alert but there is no denying the girl gets them riled like no one else.
I know she’s in there. Even though the library closed hours ago and every light in the building is out, I know she hasn’t gone home yet.
I’m a cop. A good one. One of the best and that’s not my ego talking, it’s fact.
I might not have worked in a crime riddled city for a few years but those instincts, honed from years of dealing with the underbelly of society, don’t go away because you leave that dark underbelly behind.
Evergreen Lake’s crime rate is the polar opposite of Chicago’s. And while it took a while to get used to the quiet—the lack of urgency—after seven years I have no regrets about leaving the hustle and filth of Chicago behind and taking the deputy job in this picturesque small town.
Finally a shadow moves through the dark building beside me and I breathe easy—and wait. She’ll be coming round the corner in less than a minute.
How do I know this?
Don’t ask. I said it’s not the first time I’ve been in this exact spot.
But it’s not something I like to think about and definitely not something I want to dwell on—or examine.
The girl is over a decade my junior and I have an unhealthy obsession with her.
Although obsession might be too strong a word.
Interest?
Fascination?
Whatever it is, I can’t stop myself.
It’s instinctual.
I need to know where she is.
Need to know she’s safe.
Need to protect her.
It’s nothing I’ve ever experienced before.
Not even with my wife.
Ex -wife.
The thought of Jen has my blood boiling and my hackles lifting. Just in time for Georgie to come around the corner and become an easy target for my anger.
She rounds the building, that bright smile of hers on her face, not a care in the world in spite of the late hour, and my anger rises.
Doesn’t she know how unsafe it is for a girl to be wandering around alone at night?
Hitting the button to lower the window, I call out, “You’re leaving late?”
My words, framed as a question even though it’s obvious what she’s doing, get me no more than a nod followed by her back. Her intention to walk home even though I’m right here to give her a ride has every muscle snapping tight and my left eye twitching.
Jesus.
This girl is going to be the death of me.
With a growl, I bark out, “Get in.”
Even I can hear the menace in my voice but I don’t apologize. I’m beyond that. Her blatant disregard for her safety has my gut burning and my fists clenching on the wheel.
And the smile she shoots my way before saying, “No, thank you. It’s a nice night for a walk,” has my irritation boiling over.
I’m out of the truck, stalking toward her in seconds, and with a hand curled around her elbow, I try to modulate my tone. Except in spite of my efforts my voice still comes out a harsh growl.
“It’s too cold to walk and too late to be doing it on your own. I’ll give you a ride.”
She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t try to pull from my grasp, only fueling my ire. She’s so precious the possible danger she’s putting herself in burns my throat like acid, and when she finally speaks my eye twitch increases and my jaw clenches hard enough to crack teeth.
“Thank you, I appreciate you offering, but I like to clear my head after a long day at work and?—”
With a rough grumble in my throat, I pull her closer and lower my face until I can feel the heat of her, smell the sweet scent of her skin, and I’m beyond pissed now.
“Get in the truck or I’ll put you there.” The words grind through my teeth and I have to consciously keep from tightening my grip on her arm.
Her eyes finally meet mine, dart back and forth between them, and I see it, the moment she decides the fight is useless— that I’m not going to give in on this no matter what argument she throws at me next.
Leaning away, she offers me a huge smile and, like we haven’t just gone toe-to-toe and I’m a hair’s breadth from throwing her over my shoulder, she sweetly says, “Since you asked so nicely, yes, thank you, I’d love a ride.”
Before I can say anything else—or blink—or breathe—she twists out of my hold as though my fingers are tissue paper and steps around me.
By the time I turn she’s sitting in the passenger seat of my truck looking like she belongs there—like that seat has her name on it. Like it’s always been hers.
And that damn smile is still on her face.
It doesn’t falter.
Not once.
Not when I walk to the truck and climb behind the wheel.
Not when I put the truck in gear.
Not on the short drive to her house.
Don’t bother asking how I know where she lives.
This is my town to protect.
I know where every permanent resident lives.
And when I pull into her driveway she hops out, turns that ever-present smile my way and waves.
Not a word.
Just a smile and a wave before she dashes across the lawn to her porch.
And when she slips inside her house, the front door closing swiftly behind her, I have the irrational urge to follow.
To check she’s okay.
Nothing more.
It can’t be anything more.
She’s not something— someone —I should want in my life.
And I don’t.
My life is fine the way it is.
Quiet.
I do my job, work out, hike when the weather is good.
I don’t need some young girl complicating things.
I don’t need anything—anyone.
Not anymore.
With a shake of my head, I face forward, flick my eyes to check my mirrors as I put the truck in reverse, and back out of the driveway onto the empty late-night street.
I should head home. My shift ended a couple of hours ago. But like I did when I left the precinct, I take a drive through town before something makes me pull up beside Santa’s Closet.
Nothing seems out of place, there isn’t a car on the road or a person in sight, and yet a niggle of unease tweaks my gut. Turning off the truck, I shove open the door and step out into the cold.
The temperature has dropped a few degrees since I all but forced Georgie to accept a ride home and I grab my coat and slip it on. Dig in the pockets for my gloves while I survey the area.
It’s instinct that has me moving, heading across the street for the town square—the tree. The lights aren’t on. The official tree lighting, like the festival kickoff, doesn’t happen for another few days, but things are in place, ready to go.
Starting Friday, this normally quiet little town will become a mecca for tourists and locals, making my job a bit harder. But I’m up for the challenge. I might have sought out and enjoy the peace of Evergreen Lake, but there is no denying the buzz of activity the annual festival brings has its own appeal.
Pulling the flashlight from my belt, I light it up and sweep the beam over the area. I don’t know what I’m looking for. I don’t really expect to find anything. Same as earlier, the night is quiet, the cold rapidly getting colder, and anyone with a lick of sense is behind closed doors in the warmth.
Let’s not make comment on my common sense. I’m employed to do this. In uniform or out, I’m a protector to the bone. A little cold won’t deter me from checking when I think something is wrong.
I might be understating how cold it is, my nose is already numb, but I love how it feels as though I’m the only person in the world. The quiet peace of a winter night never fails to settle my nerves and I breathe deep and enjoy the moment.
Until I sweep the beam of my flashlight over the lower branches of the tree and a flare of white grabs my attention.
“Son of a bitch!”
Moving closer, I bend down to get a better look.
“Fucking Jingle Balls.”
There. On the tree. On a branch about four feet off the ground is a new hand-painted Christmas ball.
It wasn’t there a few hours ago.
I’d know.
One of the first things I did after my shift was check the tree to be sure no one had decided vandalism was their activity of choice tonight.
Okay, fine, I may have been looking to see if Jingle Balls had added another ball.
There is usually one a week throughout December each year. But not until after the tree lighting so my inspection earlier had been pointless. Except…
There’s a new ball right in front of me. Days before the first one normally shows up.
This one features Dan. The one and only delivery guy in Evergreen Lake. He’s got a large pepperoni pizza draped over his head, the dough separated to show his bulging eyes, the cheese and discs of meat dripping down onto his shoulders.
As caricatures go it’s a good one, brilliant really, and not at all offensive. It captures a funny moment from earlier in the year where Dan found himself in the middle of a domestic squabble.
I can’t help but grin when the memory of pulling up to Frank and Ethel Mosby’s to find them on their front lawn yelling at each other about who was going to pay for the pizza—a pizza that had somehow ended up over Dan’s head—flashes though my mind.
Not much puts a smile on my face these days.
I’ve never been the most jovial of men and after my ex took a hatchet to our life I’m the first to admit I’m less so. There isn’t much to smile about when the future you envisioned for yourself gets ripped away and handed to someone else.
Except the hand-painted caricatures of townspeople that appear each year on the town Christmas tree have always made me smile.
Not in public. Especially not when the one of me showed up last year.
In the seven years I’ve lived in Evergreen Lake I haven’t once featured on a ball. Then again, I guess I hadn’t done anything worthy until last year.
I can’t stop a shudder from ripping through me.
I still can’t deal with raw eggs.
I can eat eggs as long as someone else prepares them and I don’t have to witness said preparation.
But cracking an egg to cook it myself?
I shudder again.
Nuh-uh. No way, no how.
I can still feel the slimy warm fluid dripping down my face, sliding into my ears and the back of my collar, inching down my spine.
Another shudder rattles my bones but this one has more to do with the cold breeze that’s picking up with every breath I take.
We aren’t meant to get snow tonight, but that can change in a heartbeat this time of year. Shaking my head, I leave Jingle Balls’ newest addition to be discovered in the morning and make my way back to the warmth of my truck.
This time I’ll actually point it toward home when I put it in gear.
Morning comes soon enough and while I’m not on shift until late afternoon, I’ve got some errands to do before I clock in.
And a library book to return.
One I haven’t read.
Like every other one I’ve borrowed.
A habit formed over time.
A habit that’s grown in the years since Georgie’s grandmother died.
A habit I should break.
Except it’s one I don’t think I can.
Every week, twice a week, I slip into the library to return and borrow a book. I bring whatever tome I’ve chosen home and place it on the kitchen counter.
And that’s where it stays until a few days later when I return it and start the cycle all over again.
Monday and Thursday every week Georgie Bookman is my guilty pleasure. Although no pleasure should be guilty.
But when I’m heading into the library two times a week just to get a look at a girl far too young for me, I feel like a dirty old man.
And guilty as fuck.
Because as much as I fight it, deny it, ignore it. I’ve got a thing for a girl over a decade younger than me.
One who’s sweetness and light.
I’d never forgive myself for tarnishing her glow with my gloom.
It’s the reason I’m a forty-two-year-old divorcé after all.
According to my ex, the darkness and stench from my job is engrained deep in my bones and seeps from my pores to contaminate everything around me.
No, I shouldn’t subject Georgie Bookman to my gloom no matter how much I want her.