Chapter 40
40
Elliot Crane
When are you coming home?
It’s been 38 hours.
He wasn’t wrong. It had been thirty-eight hours and twenty-two minutes since the first call came in on New Year’s Eve about a bullet that had been shot in the air coming down—as bullets do—and killing someone. Usually, shots fired into the air weren’t fatal—but they were still beyond stupid because they very easily could be, and they were highly likely to do property damage or cause injury if they didn’t happen to kill someone.
The someone in question had been one of the other party-goers at the same party at which the gun had been fired, which meant that the shooter had actually managed to point the thing straight up. Usually they were at an angle so that the bullets came completely unexpectedly out of nowhere as far as the victims were concerned. At least this time they knew what had happened. They just hadn’t thought it would happen to them.
And from there I went to a DUI wrapped around a tree.
Then a bar that had been broken into and robbed that needed a once-over for fingerprints at five in the morning.
Then a hit-and-run with a cow.
Then a fire that had been set at a shop owned by a local Menominee artist that did a bunch of damage, but had been salvageable. A lot of smoke and water damage to the building, but the fire team had gotten there quickly enough that they wouldn’t be completely devastated. Nathaniel had been at that scene, too, and the tightness of his face told me that it happened too often to be coincidence every time. My nose told me it hadn’t been this time, either.
And after that, another car accident, someone from Illinois, probably up visiting family or friends for the New Year.
When Elliot texted me, I was cold, tired, and very, very hungry, despite the fact that I’d at least managed to eat three bagels from the giant bag Lacy had brought to the current scene. No cream cheese for me, but even dry bagels were better than nothing.
This scene was a partially-burnt car that had the benefit of at least not having a body in it, although the police were tracking whoever had fled from it immediately before the gas tank had ignited.
Soon, I hope.
Few hours, maybe?
I’ll have dinner ready.
It’s like ten am.
Lunch, then.
Have you eaten?
Lacy brought food to the last one.
Text me when you leave.
Several radios crackled as someone called in that they’d found the driver and needed an EMT team.
“That’s good news, then,” Lacy said from the other side of the car, where she was working.
“Not bad yet, at any rate,” I replied. An EMT team meant that the driver was still alive, although it didn’t tell us how badly they were injured. But the size of the blood smears by my side of the car—the driver’s side—suggested that it hadn’t been just some scratches and bruises.
I scraped along the side of the car, collecting a sample of blue paint from the scratched metal. The car we were working on was white, so the blue—and the blood—stood out clearly. The back end was still mostly in one piece, although there was damage to the driver’s side that suggested the car had been forced off the road, although whether by intent or stupidity I couldn’t quite tell.
“Seth—go home,” Lacy said.
I looked up. “What?”
“How long have you been out here?”
I told her.
“Exactly. Go home.”
“Lacy, this car was run off the road.”
“And I got a two-hour nap in there while you were dealing with a cow, I think,” she replied. “Go home. You’re exhausted.” Her expression softened. “I can hear it in your voice.”
“Let me finish this up, then I’ll go.”
It was another three-and-a-half hours before I pulled up behind Elliot’s Tundra in the driveway. It was overcast and supposed to snow, although it hadn’t started yet. I had another forty-three hours before I needed to be back at work, and I was looking forward to sleeping for several of them. I was also extremely excited about lunch.
The minute I stepped through the front door I could smell the honey-mustard roasted chicken I knew was Elliot’s favorite—I knew why, because it was damn good. I could also smell the warm yeastiness of fresh bread and made a small groan of pleasure at the smells.
I made my way into the kitchen and found Elliot tossing some green beans with a mix of seeds and spices. There was a pan of roasted red potatoes sitting on the stove, presumably recently pulled out of the oven.
I smiled. It was the same thing he’d made for me the first night I’d been here.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked, then winced at how awful my voice sounded.
He turned and handed me a glass of wine, holding it in his recently-sling-free left hand. “Do I need one?”
“Thanks.” I accepted it, then took a careful sip before putting the glass down on the island, settling on one of the stools. “And no, I guess not,” I said in answer to his question.
He smiled at me, but the expression was… a little mischievous.
“What?” I asked him.
“Nothing,” he replied. “I’m just… excited to start moving you, that’s all.”
“You know this is the exact same thing you cooked for me when I first moved out here,” I said, nodding toward the stove as he poured the beans into a serving dish.
He smiled. “Exactly?”
“I don’t think you made me bread that time, but the beans, the potatoes, the chicken, yeah.”
His smile widened. “It’s my favorite—the chicken,” he said. “I wanted to share that with you.”
“It’s good,” I replied. “You can share it with me anytime you want.”
“I’m also pretty good at roasting potatoes and green beans, and I knew I wasn’t going to fuck those up.”
I leaned forward on my elbows. “Did you go shopping when I slept?” I asked him. “I feel like I hadn’t been asleep for that long.”
His lips quirked. “I—planned ahead,” he replied, and I saw color flushing the coppery skin of his cheeks. “You’d asked if I meant it. I thought—I hoped that maybe you really would come out. And I wanted to have good food for you—to make something you could eat and that you’d be impressed by.”
“Well, you impressed me,” I told him. “Although I’m pretty sure I was far from impressive in return.”
He leaned on the opposite side of the island, taking my hands in his. “You drove halfway across the country for me,” he said softly. “Even though I was being the world’s biggest dumbass about it.” He lifted one of my hands and kissed my cold fingers. “You impressed me. You keep impressing me. I don’t know how you do what you do every day—but I’m so proud of you for doing it.”
My neck and face caught on fire.
“I love you, baby,” he said, kissing my knuckles again. “Even if the best I can do is make you food after an absolutely horrific shift.”
“That’s the best kind of best,” I told him, scowling a little when the words made less sense coming out of my mouth than I’d thought they would.
He laughed, then turned back to the oven, taking a steaming pan of bubbling chicken out and setting it on the surface beside the pan of potatoes. “Come make yourself a plate.”
Something I’d learned in my almost-six months in Wisconsin—up here, food is love. I’d put it together slowly, piece by piece. Every time Elliot wanted me to know he loved me, he made me food. Special dinners. Brunch when I got home in the morning after an overnight call. Fresh cookies or brownies. Fresh bread. Driving to Green Bay just to get me Thai food.
It was how he’d told me he wanted to date me.
How he’d wished me a happy birthday.
And how he’d shown that he cared about me even before he knew himself. And if I’d known that back in July, I might have understood that he did care, he just needed time.
And, sure, I made him food, too, but there was something different about the way he did it. Something deliberate and thoughtful.
I’d always heard the phrase baked with love , but it had taken me until Elliot Crane to understand what that really meant.
You really can taste it.