Chapter 30
My porch light illuminates a man blinking into the light’s glare a few careful feet from my stoop. Hair pushed back behind the ears, facial stubble, holding something by his side with one hand and the other held palm out as though in surrender.
It takes a second for my brain to catch up, and when it does, it’s a jolt in my chest. Oh my God, it’s him. Rolling Stone. Jeremy Fisher, the man from the airport. Holding a . . . what? A six-pack?
Why the hell is he here? My mind spins from all the chaos. The same person I saw on the day after the sketch came out shows up unannounced in the dark?
My breath punches out louder than it should in the still air.
Plus, the look on his face suggests he’s clueless about my state of worry, but then maybe that’s the point, his entire ruse.
“Crosbie Mitchell,” he says, squinting into the light. “That you? I’m not here to hurt you or cause any trouble.”
I step out, still holding my gun up.
“Whoa.” Jeremy takes a big step back. “Is that necessary?”
“Do you really think I’d answer the door without making sure I’m safe? Why are you creeping around out here this late?”
“Creeping is a strong word.”
“I don’t see your car. Where is it?”
A tentative smile. “As I’m sure you’re aware, your entrance is well guarded. I figured I’d park on the next road over and walk across the field.”
“And why in the hell would you do that?”
“To talk to you before the others do.” He gives me the same sheepish squint he gave me in the airport.
“How do you know where I live?”
“Once your identity came out in the news, it really wasn’t difficult. Can we talk?”
I press my lips together and think about it.
The inhales and exhales through my nose are still too loud.
I part my lips and try to breathe more quietly and calmly.
I don’t trust him, but I do need to know more about him.
If I suspect Jeremy, which I do, then I should talk to him, find out what he wants. Keep my enemies close.
I do the math: In the morning, there will be only two days left. Discovering what he’s after here and now saves me time from tracking him down later, if I need to.
“I brought microbrews. Local ones. And other than that”—as if he’s read my mind about what else he’s carrying—“all I’ve got with me is this notepad and pen.” He points to his jacket pocket with his free hand. “May I?”
“Slowly,” I say.
He half kneels like he’s balancing on a surfboard and places the beer down on the gravel, then equally gingerly opens his fleece so I can see the inside pocket and pulls out his notepad and pen.
“What do you want?”
“Like I said, to talk to you first. About your story. You know I deserve first dibs, right?”
“Deserve?”
“Come on.” He motions to the field he’s apparently come across. “There were divots and gopher holes. I almost ate it twice.” He flashes a wry smile. “And I was carrying this.” He glances at the beer. “And, you know, you almost shot me. That ought to be worth something.”
He’s undeniably disarming. Plus there’s the strong angle of his jaw, his golden eyes, and how his eyebrows grow fuller on the outside edges—something I wouldn’t have guessed would appeal to me.
But I think of that word—disarming—and it occurs to me that maybe he didn’t use the field simply because Zane is guarding the front of the place.
Maybe he doesn’t want me to see his car because it’s a dark-colored SUV like the one out at the dump site, and he’s been keeping an eye on me since we arrived from Dallas.
My mind frantically whirls like a top. I’m more convinced than ever now that the drawing is of me. I saw this guy at the conference, of all places. And then again at the airport in my own small Montana town? What are the chances? It seems much too coincidental.
Maybe he doesn’t know I didn’t get a good glimpse of his vehicle or its license plate and has come here because he thinks I’m now a loose end that needs tidying up ahead of the six-day allotment.
“Where were you before this?” I ask.
“At my hotel, reading up on you.”
If he’s faking it, he’s quick. And a good actor. “And what did you find out?”
“That it looks like someone you know sold you out to the press.”
I keep studying him. The night feels charged.
Crickets trill loudly from the surrounding fields and my porch lights are attracting bugs.
Bats swoop in and out of the shadows beyond the glare to hunt insects.
He studies me back, his eyes wide with either concern for the gun pointed his way or sincerity. I can’t tell.
Keep your enemies close. “It’s cold out here,” I say at last. “Hang on.” I grab my phone out of my pocket with my free hand and hold it up and snap a photo of him. “There,” I say. “Now I’m going to text this to the deputy out front, so he can identify you if he has to.”
“Fair enough.”
Glancing up to him and back down to the phone, over and over, I pull up Zane’s number, attach the photo, and tell him that everything’s fine but that I want him to know I have a visitor.
“Also,” I tell Jeremy. “You should know, when I heard you outside, I called him, so he might be here any second.”
A lie, but it would have been a good idea, though I was glad he was still at the entrance keeping the others away.
Once inside, Jeremy stands by the front door, still unsure of himself—a good sign, I consider. I usher him into the dining area next to the kitchen.
“You going to keep that pointed at me all night?”
“Maybe.” A part of me does feel bad. No one likes to have one of these trained on them. “Sorry. But given the circumstances . . . And you were an idiot to sneak up like that, with everything that’s going on.”
“I’m aware. But these are the hazards of the job. Gotta take some risks. I’m sure you understand, being a PI and all.”
There’s boldness, and there’s crazy, I think. “Have a seat.” I motion to the kitchen table, and he follows my direction. I remain standing while he twists the cap off one of his beers and holds it out to me. I stare at him, not moving to grab it.
“Don’t like?”
I take it but stay by the counter facing him, still holding the gun. A few sips won’t hurt, and I could use something to calm my nerves, which are thrumming like a high-voltage wire. “Thanks. You know I’m not giving you any kind of a confession, so what do you want from me?”
“Why not? It could save your life.”
“Gee, I don’t know, maybe because I have no idea what I’ve done that needs confessing. What? That a friend dared me to steal a piece of candy from the drugstore when I was a kid?”
“Hmm. That’s the worst secret you have?”
“No.” God no. “But you get my point. I could scour my life, as anyone would in this situation, but there’s nothing that stands out,” I say.
He doesn’t need to know that I’ve considered every wrongdoing I’ve ever committed—from my minor infractions to the times I’ve threatened people, like my neighbor when I pulled him over, or Jess’s ex-boyfriend when I warned him that it was best to stay out of her life, or poured cola over a rude woman’s car window—I’ve done all this even while knowing that it all, every human bit of it, pales in comparison to how I failed Sophie, and Leon, and my own sister, and myself, through my complicity with Railes.
But no one knows about the big one except Railes himself.
I take a deep drag on my beer.
“But the point is”—I wipe the back of my hand over my lips—“even if I had anything to fess up to, there’d be no way I’d confess a damn thing before I developed some kind of understanding of what this person’s after.
Maybe if I could get a grip on why he’s doing this, I might have a clue as to what kind of a confession he’s looking for.
Until then, there’s no point in me or anyone else throwing stuff out there.
” I take another, daintier draw on my beer.
“Plus, I don’t plan on smearing my life all over the place. Not my style.”
“Got it, but still, are you telling me there’s really nothing?”
I cock my head nonchalantly, pretend the guilt isn’t throbbing so loudly inside me that it’s deafening, and give him a look that says, Of course there’s a minor thing or two, but I wouldn’t tell ’em to you.
“Look, I get that you don’t know me, but I think I can help you.”
“Well, that’s nice of you. How, exactly?”
“If you read my stuff. I mean, I’m not saying I’m a Pulitzer-winning journalist or anything, but I will say that I do my best to be honest, respectful, and thoughtful.
I wouldn’t just throw anything out there for the clicks or kicks.
We don’t even need to write about your confession.
I want to do a story on you, what it’s like to be in this awful, awful”—he shakes his head with what looks like actual sincerity and stares me in the eyes—“situation. I write about human beings, not subjects. And my hunch is that you’re a decent, nice person and don’t deserve this.
” He points his beer toward the front of the house.
“Not many other journalists out there are going to do that, I can tell you. They’re going to rip your life to pieces and throw the scraps to the wolves.
They’re going to speculate, exaggerate, flat-out make things up that are twisted bastardizations of the truth. You get that, right?”
“I do.”
“Check out my stuff a little. And give me an exclusive. I’ll turn it into a feature that counters all the asinine stuff that will keep erupting until this guy is caught.”
“And how do you plan to do that?”
“By writing a considerate, careful piece on you. All you need to do is tell me about your life.”
“You probably already know about my life—that I was a cop, that I quit the force, that I’m now a PI.” I wonder how many other things he’s come across. Does he know about what happened in the department?