Chapter Thirteen #2
Still frowning at me, Dylan walks past me into the store. I follow, doing my best not to limp and ignore the needle-like stabbing in my knee. I can’t imagine anything more humiliating than Dylan having to coddle me. I have always hated needing help, and needing it from him makes it worse.
Inside, a lone cashier watches Dylan and me go past the aisle endcaps as we glance up each aisle, hoping to spot Peters.
No luck, though. Aside from a tired-looking woman with two small kids and an elderly man who had to be pushing eighty, carefully reading soup can labels, the store is nearly empty.
I turn my attention to the cashier. She looks as if she’s in her early twenties. Her unnaturally black hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, and her straight bangs fall well above her high-arched brows.
She’s wearing a red smock over a black sweater with a plastic name tag pinned to her chest above her heart. Justine.
“Good morning,” I say, trying what I hope is a disarming smile. “I hope you can help me. I’m looking for the manager, Mason Peters.”
Honestly, the guy gives me the creeps, and I’d prefer to avoid him if it were an option. There’s something about him I don’t trust, but he’s also our best bet for getting a sense of whether Matthew was friendly with any of his co-workers.
“He’s not here,” Justine says. She glances nervously around the store as if checking to see if she’s being watched. “He won’t be here until around four.”
That was six hours from now. I didn’t want to wait six hours for a man I wasn’t sure would be able or willing to help us. “Do you know where he is?”
She nods. “Home.”
I bite back a curse. Maybe we could visit the man at his home. Hell, he might even be more forthcoming in a private setting. But somehow, I didn’t think so. If anything, after our last interaction with the man, I doubted he’d even open the door to us.
Beside me, Dylan steps closer to the register. “Did you know Matthew Fraiser?”
Her face pales, and she nods again. “I knew him.”
“Were you close?” Dylan asks.
She jerks a shoulder, gaze darting around the store again. Was she afraid of something? “We were friends.”
“We’d like to talk to you about him,” I say. “Do you mind answering some questions for us?”
“Not here,” she whispers, leaning closer.
“Are you—?”
But before I can finish the question, she cuts in. “I’m going to take my break soon. Wait for me?”
“Sure. We’re parked in the truck out front.”
“Okay, I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
Dylan and I start back to the car, half jogging because of the rain, when a sharp pain stabs my knee, and the joint suddenly feels like rubber under my skin.
The pain spikes without warning, sharp enough to make my leg feel unsteady.
I stumble forward with a curse, and I probably would have wound up sprawled across the muddy lot if Dylan hadn’t moved in front of me, catching me around my waist with one arm, my chest slamming into his.
“Fuck,” I grind out. The pain is already easing, but despite the frigid rain, my face burns with embarrassment.
“Are you okay?” Dylan asks. Both of his arms are around me now, and I can feel his careful breaths against my chest. For a second, I close my eyes and rest my forehead against his shoulder, hating that he’s seeing me like this.
“I’m okay,” I lie.
“Hunter,” Dylan says, without letting me go. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll collapse to the ground if he does, and I’m not sure he’s wrong. “Your knee is obviously bothering you. You need to rest.”
My face burns hotter. I know he’s right, and I hate it. I’ve been pushing it for the last few days, and I shouldn’t have been surprised that it’s given out on me altogether.
I lean back to get a better look at his face. Concern tightens his features, and I have to fight the urge to smooth the line grooving the skin between his brows with my thumb.
“We’ll talk to Justine,” I say, then I’ll go back to the room and take it easy for the rest of the day.
He looks unconvinced, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he wordlessly helps me into the car.
“Do you need me to drive?” he asks.
I want to tell him I’m fine, but the truth is I’m not sure that I am. “Yeah, maybe. Probably for the best.” Admitting that costs me more than I want to acknowledge.
He helps me climb into the passenger seat before hurrying back to the driver’s side and climbing in behind the wheel.
As he slams the door closed behind him, I pop open the glove compartment and dig around until I find the bottle of ibuprofen I keep there.
I can feel Dylan’s worried gaze on me while I dry-swallow two pills.
When I finally look at him, he asks, “It’s bad, isn’t it? ”
“It’s not that bad, just stiff, and it kind of went out on me back there, but I’m okay now.” Mostly.
He doesn’t look as if he believes me. “Do you need a doctor, or maybe we should take you to the hospital, get it checked out?”
Shaking my head, I toss the pill bottle back into the glove compartment and close the door. “I told you, I’m fine. It’s the damp, and sitting cooped up in the car all day yesterday made it stiff. The painkillers will help, and I’ll ice it once we’re back at the inn.”
Before Dylan can argue anymore, the back door opens, and Justine climbs into the backseat.
“I need you to drive before someone sees me,” she says, eyes flicking toward the store.