Chapter Thirteen
Franny did sleep. It wasn’t a great, restful sleep but it was sleep nonetheless.
She couldn’t seem to drag herself out of bed until late afternoon—half dozing and half worrying the day away.
Then she tried to read, to write, to watch a movie on her computer, but her mind kept wandering to the cameras surveilling her apartment.
Eventually, her stomach demanded sustenance, cameras be damned. It was nearly seven by the time she felt presentable enough to be constantly video monitored and shuffled out into the living area.
She needed to make herself a decent dinner, not just do what she wanted to do and eat chips and maybe a block of cheese. She opened her pantry and then refrigerator, surveying the contents.
“Spaghetti it is,” she said out loud, then nearly groaned remembering she was on surveillance and anyone who watched or listened would in fact observe her talking to herself. Fantastic.
Irritated and jumpy, she set about making dinner. She wanted to turn some music on, or the TV, anything to drown out the sound of her own thoughts screaming: you are being recorded, but what if someone came up the stairs? What if another threat came?
What if, God forbid, she started dancing and singing along to something?
And even if she didn’t need to be listening for a threat or constantly monitoring her own behavior, Royal would be coming whenever his shift was done. Which should be soon, shouldn’t it? Maybe she should make enough spaghetti for him.
She stared at the boiling water, debating her choices. She stopped herself from saying to hell with it out loud and dumped the entire contents of the box in the water. If she had enough leftover spaghetti for a week, so be it.
The least she could do was offer him some food when he came by. So she focused on putting together a decent dinner. Made some garlic toast with what pieces of bread she had left. Her only vegetable option was a can of green beans that didn’t exactly go with the rest, but hey, it was green.
She was just straining the pasta when her text notification went off. She glanced at the screen. From Royal.
On my way up.
She looked at the text, then at the door. There was no reason to be nervous. Or feel weird. She was going to eat dinner. He could join if he wanted while they discussed strategy, or he could watch her eat while they did.
Either way, this was her life now. She crossed to the door, disengaged the alarm, then opened it.
He’d changed into a T-shirt and shorts. His hair was damp like he’d run through the shower before he’d come over. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, then he gestured toward the door, a nonverbal set the alarm again.
She did, even though it felt a bit like being in jail, but that was the price to pay for safety and she was determined to be reasonable about that.
“I was just finishing up making dinner. Spaghetti. If you’re hungry, you can…have some. There’s plenty.”
“Oh—” He glanced at the kitchen, and she couldn’t quite read the expression on his face, but she was worried it was discomfort. Like he felt bad for her and would pity accept.
“But you don’t have to. Just extra, if you want. If you’re hungry. I’m going to eat, because I’m hungry.” Jeez, she was a mess.
“Well, sure. I…haven’t eaten yet.”
“Great,” she replied, no doubt sounding far too cheerful. She walked back to the kitchen, finished up preparations then handed him a plate. “Help yourself. What would you like to drink? I’ve got water. A variety of zero-calorie pops. And milk that expired three days ago.”
He chuckled a little at that. “Water’s fine.”
It was very awkward to share the tiny kitchen space with someone so…big. He smelled like soap and she was having a hard time not cataloguing all the tattoos on his arm when what she needed to do was get him a glass of water and get her own dinner sorted.
Once that was finally done, they took a seat at the little dining table that had come with the apartment or she wouldn’t have bothered with. She preferred to eat on the couch. Or in bed.
Now she sat across from Royal eating very basic spaghetti and canned green beans at her kitchen table.
“So, I’m on duty seven to seven here in Hope Town.
Deputy Mayfield handles the night shift.
” He covered his spaghetti in an alarming amount of the parmesan she’d put on the table.
“Simmons has all the alarms connected into my phone, so anything that happens should wake me up even overnight. Plus, I’ve got my phone set so a call or text from you goes through no matter what. ”
“What about days off?”
“Usually it’d be weekends, but Sheriff and I thought it’d be best to just work through this. Ideally, we get to the bottom of things before I work too many days in a row. What about your schedule?”
She was stuck for a moment, not sure if she was supposed to insist he take days off or if she should just accept that he and the sheriff were doing the right thing. It’s not like this was for her exactly. It was to find Albennie.
“Well, I usually like to go down to the bakery for my afternoon coffee and baked good, but I certainly don’t have to anymore. At some point this week I probably need to go to the grocery store. But I can really just…hermit down with the best of them.”
His mouth curved into an almost…half smile. It was kind but not patronizing. Kind of like she amused him, in a good way.
She didn’t know what the hell to do with that. So she ate her dinner and they worked out how they’d handle surveillance monitoring. When he’d be watching, when they should wear the earbuds.
It wasn’t that complicated, all in all. Weird? Yes. Complicated? No. But they were both still eating once they’d determined the logistics and an uncomfortable kind of lull fell over the table.
Franny didn’t know why it was uncomfortable, or why she couldn’t seem to think of anything to say except to interrogate him about his life because she was desperately curious.
Was he curious at all about her? No, because you are not that interesting. But she had invited him to dinner, and he was protecting her, so it was probably her job to keep conversation going.
Or you just want to know about him. “So you grew up in South Dakota. Your sister is a forensic anthropologist and you’re a cop. Law enforcement run in the family?”
He laughed, not an amused laugh but a full-on maybe even a little caustic laugh. “No. Not at all.”
She knew a red light when she saw one. Curiosity was a hard thing for her to tamp down, but she did when she knew the questions weren’t wanted, wouldn’t be welcomed. She was uncomfortable enough in her own skin half the time, she hated to make anyone else feel uncomfortable.
But just because she knew she couldn’t ask all the questions she wanted to didn’t mean she knew what to say. So another awkward silence descended.
“Why do you have so many questions about me, Franny?” Royal asked her.
For a moment she just met his gaze, her heart fluttering around in her chest. The truth was, she always had questions about people, but she didn’t always voice those questions. Not everyone interested her.
He did. For a lot of reasons. But she wasn’t going to tell him that.
“People are interesting,” she said, trying to sound casual.
“People are kind of my job. Writing stories is just…discovering how people tick. I guess sometimes that just slips out into trying to be a normal human being making conversation. And if you haven’t gathered, normal isn’t one of my top qualities. ”
His mouth curved, ever so slightly. But his blue eyes were very serious. “So, if Brooke and I were characters in your book, what would make us tick?”
She could play this a couple different ways. It was a challenge of sorts, she could recognize that, though she didn’t know what he was hoping to gain from the challenge. So she just told him the truth.
“Well, based on the way you laughed at me asking if your family was in law enforcement, and the fact that you were quite adamant you’d never want to go back to South Dakota, my fictionalized version of that childhood—which is usually what makes people tick—would be…
raised by criminals, saw awful things, so grew up wanting to protect people.
Because you weren’t protected when you were vulnerable. ”
He studied her for a long time. Long enough she had to look away or she’d start blushing. Or start staring very hard at the tattoo on his right bicep that peeked out under his T-shirt sleeve.
It looked like the bottom half of a heart, and she desperately wanted to know if it had something inside like: Mom or a woman’s name.
What kind of woman would prompt Royal to get her name tattooed on his arm?
When he finally spoke, it was with a kind of gravity that had her looking back up.
“Maybe your fictions aren’t far off.” He downed a gulp of water like it was hard liquor that might take the sting away. He set the glass down, fixed her with that intense stare of his. “You ever heard of the Sons of the Badlands?”
She blinked once, swallowed, feeling unaccountably nervous and not really sure why. Except, she supposed, nothing about the Sons of the Badlands was good conversation. “The biker gang cult group?”
“Yeah. What do you know about them?”
“Well, uh, my second book, the reason I first came to live with Audra and Rosalie in fact, was because I was researching cults to base my fictional one on. I mainly focused on the Order of Truth. That old cult from the seventies that lived out near Sunrise? I was interested in the religious fanaticism and the isolated location, but I wanted something more criminal, so I fell down a little Sons of the Badlands research rabbit hole. For the story, I liked their whole nomad thing, and their broader scope. Much more menacing. Combining the two created a nice fictional hybrid that suited my purposes.”