Chapter 3
Kenzi
Twenty minutes into the drive, I decide the silence is a personal insult, and I'm going to treat it as one.
To be fair to Dozer, he hasn't done anything to earn that decision, except exist quietly in the driver's seat like a man carved out of a single piece of granite and occasionally check the mirrors. I’ve never met anyone as quiet as this man before.
How can you drive for twenty minutes without saying a single word or at least having music on? Who does that?
I've never met a silence I trust to just be silence. Silence is usually a person deciding what not to say, and I find that infinitely more interesting than whatever they'd have said if you'd just asked them nicely.
So, I don't ask nicely, but then again, I never really do. "You're humming," I say. It's a lie, he is absolutely not humming. I’m not sure he would know how to hum. But I have to start the conversation somewhere.
He has made a sound approximately once that might have been a stray molecule of air escaping his nose, but do you know your nasal exhale had a slight melodic quality isn't going to land the way I want, so I call it humming.
His eyes stay on the road. "No."
Great. One word. Wow, he’s such a talker. "You are."
"No." He answers again.
"Very off-key, too, which, respect, honestly. Most people at least try to hum in tune, but you've clearly decided that's beneath you."
"No."
I wait for him to expand on it… and nothing. Not even a twitch. "Okay, so we're committing to the silent treatment."
"I'm driving."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive activities."
His mouth moves. Barely. I can't tell if he's fighting a smile or regretting the decision to let me within ten feet of him. Either way, I consider it progress.
I turn in my seat, seat belt cutting into my shoulder, and study him properly for the first time since we've left the compound. His big hands on the wheel at exactly ten and two. Who actually drives with their hands at ten and two? It’s like he learned to drive from a manual and never once deviated from it.
His posture appears relaxed, but not really.
I already know there's nothing relaxed about Dozer.
He just knows how to make tension look comfortable.
His eyes move between the road and the mirrors, methodical and constant.
Every few seconds, he checks something I don't have the experience to identify. What is it he’s looking for?
All I see is the passing vehicles. Is he cataloging everything else?
The reflections in the mirror? Every intersection?
Is he looking for all the possible problems? I’m sure he is.
Whatever he's looking for, he sees it before I even think to look. He’s impressive if not a little intimidating.
And, if I'm being completely honest, more than a little attractive. Which is inconvenient, I don’t need a distraction while trying to prove to Hunter that I am worth the risk.
I need a permanent position, and I can’t squander this opportunity just because the operator on the job is attractive.
I definitely should not be noticing how his jaw is doing absolutely nothing interesting.
No clenching, no twitching and no tell that gives me a clue what's happening behind those dark eyes. I’d really like to know what he’s thinking about.
I am well trained in picking up nonverbal clues. But, Dozer, is a man who apparently decides emotional expression is a resource to be rationed, and he's hoarding his like the last bottle of water in a desert.
I find him fascinating but then again, I have always found the wrong things fascinating. It's possibly my most consistent personality trait, right after talks to fill silence and directly before occasionally correct about things nobody asked her to be correct about.
"Okay," I say. "New topic." He glances at me. I catch it. Is it a new topic if we aren’t on any topic at all? I don’t care. "Road-trip snacks."
Nothing. Absolutely no response from Dozer.
I plunge ahead. "What's your ideal road-trip snack?" Still nothing. This man is infuriating. He’s a large man. Surely, he eats. And, who doesn’t like a good road trip snack? If he tells me he doesn’t snack, I’ll suggest to Hunter that he might be a serial killer.
"And before you say jerky, I want you to sit with the fact that jerky is a sad, dry cry for help, and I will be judging you accordingly." I lean back and cross my arms over my chest, determined not to say another word until he answers me.
"Jerky." Is it really jerky or is he teasing me. Does Dozer even know how to tease?
"I knew it." I throw one hand toward the ceiling. "I knew it." His eyes flick toward me for half a second. I catch that, too. "You're going to make me eat gas-station jerky the entire way to D.C., aren't you?"
"No."
I relax before responding. "Excellent."
"There's a cooler in the back."
I stare at him. "That is not an answer to my question, it’s a logistics update."
"It's also an answer."
I turn slowly toward him. Because those exact four words, delivered completely flat, was unmistakably a joke. A small one. Barely a joke at all, really. But it's there and I've caught it. "Was that a joke?"
"No."
"Did you just make a joke?"
"No."
"Yes you did." I point at him. "I heard it."
"I don't know what you're talking about." He’s enjoying this.
"I'm very perceptive. It's basically my whole job." I lower my hand. "I catalog things other people miss for a living, and I am telling you, Dozer, that was a joke."
He says nothing.
"I would like it noted for the record that I found it funny."
"Noted." He says while I stare at him and I swear, I would swear to it in a court of law, under oath, forensic-witness style, that the corner of his mouth does something.
Not a smile, exactly, just a twitch and it’s gone before I can point at it and say there. That. Right there. I narrow my eyes. "You smiled."
"No."
"You did."
"No."
"You know, denying observable evidence isn't going to make it less observable."
"I didn't smile."
"Okay." I settle back into my seat. "You didn't smile."
"Correct."
"You are very convincing." The words drip with sarcasm.
"Thank you."
I look at him again, but he keeps his eyes on the road.
There's something different about his face now. It’s a little less granite and a little more human.
I like it more than I should. I decide he's secretly soft. Of course, this is now just a working theory. I’ll need more evidence and I intend to test it aggressively for the duration of the drive and possibly the duration of the job.
Possibly—
I stop that thought before it finishes. Because duration of whatever comes after the job is a dangerous sentence when I've known the man for approximately two hours. I don't need that kind of complication, I have enough complications.
A corpse, for starters. The classified evidence we're going to be transporting. The possibility that someone already knows we're moving it. And, if I'm being honest, the fact that I still don't know exactly what happens to me after this job.
"Road-trip music," I announce. If there isn’t some form of noise in this van soon, I’m going to lose my mind. Dozer's shoulders move slightly.
"What?"
"Music."
"No."
"That's not a genre."
"I know."
"So you don't listen to music?" He doesn’t do road trip snacks or listen to music? I’m really leaning into my theory that he’s a serial killer.
"I do."
"What kind?"
"Depends."
"On?"
"The mission."
I stare at him. "You're telling me you have mission-specific playlists."
"No."
"Because that would actually be extremely cool." I have playlists for each mood that I’m in, but I don’t volunteer that information.
"No playlists."
"Do you even know how playlists work?"
"Yes."
"Do you use one?"
"No."
"Then you don't know how playlists work."
He glances at me. There's that almost-smile again, I grin. "Got you."
"Congratulations."
"I'd like a certificate."
"I'll see what I can do."
I sit back. Okay. This is fun. Dangerous, but fun. And for the first time since Hunter called me, I don't feel like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. I feel like I'm on a road trip.
Which is ridiculous.
We're on a mission to transport a dead man under classified circumstances because somebody wants whatever evidence is hidden inside his body badly enough to kill for it.
But for a few minutes, I'm just a woman in a truck with a quiet man who apparently has a sense of humor buried somewhere under all that muscle.
I can work with that.
We stopped briefly for a quick lunch and now we’re back on the road and headed towards D.C. It’s going to be a long trip if something doesn’t give. The silence is killing me and I wish I’d brought my earpods. Of course, I wouldn’t put them in, that would be rude.
Instead, I keep talking. Somebody has to fill the silence.
It’s obviously not going to be him, so it might as well be me.
I tell him about a case I worked, where a suspect tried to hide malware inside a children's educational game.
I tell him about the time Dexter deleted three hours of code because he decided the keyboard was the perfect place to make biscuits with his paws.
I tell him about my theory that every government building has exactly one bathroom stall with a broken lock and that it's probably a conspiracy.
Dozer contributes approximately twelve words. I consider this a victory. Then, he surprises me. "Tell me more about your cat."
I blink. "What?"
He keeps his eyes on the road. "Your cat."
"You want to know about Dexter?"
"You talk about him like he matters to you.” Something in my stomach does an uncomfortable flip, the kind I generally associate with finding a body that's been moved after death or hearing a song my brother used to like on the radio in a grocery store.
I try not to analyze my reaction too closely, because apparently the giant, intimidating operator who looks like he could snap a steel beam in half has been listening to me.
Not just tolerating the noise as I babble but actually listening. "Dexter is an eleven-pound orange menace who sits on my keyboard specifically when I'm closest to solving something."
Dozer's mouth twitches but he doesn’t say a word.
"He's done it for four years."
"Sounds like he’s strategic."
"You are giving him too much credit. Sometimes, I swear, he only has a single brain cell. He has absolutely no concept of strategy."
"That's what you think."
I look at him, but he keeps driving. I narrow my eyes. "Are you saying my cat is smarter than me?"
"I'm saying I haven't ruled it out."
I gasp. "That was another joke."
"No."
"You're getting cocky."
"I'm driving."
"Again, not mutually exclusive."
His shoulders move, just slightly. He's laughing. Not out loud. But I know it. I am damn good at reading people and I can tell. I turn toward the window so he can't see my smile.
"I've started to suspect Dexter's behavior isn't accidental. I think he's trying to teach me patience." I volunteer.
"Is it working?"
"No."
"Seems like he's failing," he adds.
"Exactly." I point toward him. "Finally. Someone understands me."
He gives me a sideways glance. "I think he's winning."
I stare. "Whose side are you on?"
"Dexter's."
"Unbelievable." I shake my head. "We go on one road trip and you think you know things."
"You invited the conversation."
"I did not invite treason."
"Noted."
There it is again, that almost-smile. "You're actually funny,” I inform him.
"I wouldn't go that far."
"I'm going to tell Hunter." I dare.
"Don't."
"Why?"
"He'll never let it go."
I laugh. "Oh, you're right." Hunter would absolutely weaponize this information. I'd give him maybe twelve minutes before he found a way to work Dozer made a joke into a conversation with the entire team. "I'll protect your secret."
"Thank you."
"For the record, Dexter is an excellent cat," I say.
"How excellent?" he asks.
"Eleven pounds of orange judgment and unconditional love,” I tell him.
"Sounds like a good cat."
"He is. The best. Don’t know what I would do without him." My smile softens. "He was there when things were bad."
Dozer's gaze flicks from the road and toward me. He doesn't ask what bad means. I appreciate that. Most people hear a sentence like that and immediately start digging. He doesn't. He lets the silence sit. For once, I don't hate it.
"Dexter doesn't care if I'm having a good day," I say quietly. "He doesn't care if I solve the case or screw it up. He doesn't care if I'm funny or annoying or haven't showered in two days."
Dozer's eyebrow lifts. "Two?"
I look at him. "Don't ruin the moment." He almost smiles. Again. I look back out the window. "He's just there."
And I suddenly realize I've said more than I intended. So I do what I always do when I get too close to something real. I make a joke. "He judges everyone, though. He would judge you, too."
"How?"
"He'd sit on your boot and refuse to move." I glance down at Dozer's massive combat boot near the pedals.
He doesn't say anything. I wait.
Nothing.
But I catch it again. The ghost of that almost-smile, there and gone. Quick as a heartbeat. Quick as the little flip in my chest I still refuse to examine. I settle deeper into the seat.
Maybe this trip won't be so bad. Maybe I can handle the silence. I don't have to fill every empty space, because I feel safe with him.
That realization catches me off guard. I don't like how much I like it.