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"He wants you to go through all the photos he's got of people matching the descriptions you gave him," Noah says. "And what kind of sheriff doesn't like to be called sheriff?"
"Dillon," I answer, flipping open the album. I'm not sure what I expected, but it's just photos. Most of them aren't even mugshots. They're five-by-eight images of men against plain blue backgrounds. I flip through several pages, surprised at how many of them are familiar.
"You know most of the men in town, Dimples?"
"Most of the ones who come into the shop regularly."
He grunts…whatever that means. "You have a lot of men coming in?"
"Sometimes." I flip to the next page, examining those photos. Neither of them is the guys from the shop, either. I think one of them might be the mayor's brother, though. He looks like the mayor, anyway. "Why?"
"No reason," Noah mutters.
I bite my lip, fighting a smile. Is he jealous? "Are you worried you have competition?"
"There is no competition. You're mine," he growls.
He's right. There is no competition. I've never even considered dating any of the men who have asked me out at the shop. I simply wasn't interested. Noah, though? He's in a category all on his own.
"Maybe I'll spend some time at the shop when you go back to work. Make sure no one is fucking with you."
I can't fight my smile this time. I turn to look at him over my shoulder. "You're crazy, you know that, right?"
He narrows his eyes at me. "Look through the photos, Dimples. We have shit to do."
I laugh quietly and turn back to the photo album, flipping through the pages. Halfway through, I stop flipping suddenly. My hands tremble as I point at the image.
"Him," I say. "This is the guy who had the gun." He has blue eyes. They're like ice as he glares at the camera, his jaw set. His hair is a pale red. The freckles scattered across his face stand in testament to his age, but he's…hard in a way that belies it, as if he's seen too much.
"You're sure?" Noah asks, placing his hand on the back of my chair as he leans down to get a better look at the photo.
"I'm positive." I couldn't forget him even if I wanted to forget. I guess it comes with the territory when someone tries to shoot you. You remember them, even if you don't want to remember, as if their image is imprinted on your psyche.
Noah pulls out his phone and snaps a photo of the image. I think he's sending it to Dillon, but I don't ask. I flip to the next page. Now that I've found the one guy, I want to find the other. I flip through page after page of images but don't come across his photo.
I flip the book closed with a disappointed huff. "I hoped they'd both be in there," I admit.
"The odds of that happening weren't great. But at least the sheriff—Dillon—knows where to start now."
"Did he say if that's the guy Jack thinks it is?" I ask.
"Yeah. It's him."
I don't know why, but I'd kind of hoped it wasn't. Maybe because I wanted it to be someone less dangerous, perhaps. As if anyone willing to shoot at an innocent person isn't dangerous. But this guy, Silar, has been in prison. He invaded someone's home at gunpoint with them inside. That's dangerous to the nth degree.
He's the kind of person who would come back to finish the job if he knew I got a good look at him and could identify him. That's a sobering thought. Maybe Noah isn't overreacting by suggesting a bodyguard. Maybe I've been underreacting.
"Do you really think a bodyguard is necessary?" I ask quietly.
"I don't know," he says after a moment, "but I'd rather have someone outside while I'm gone than risk it. I'm already going to be hearing that fucking gunshot in my nightmares for the rest of my life."
"Okay," I say, giving in. "Then I guess that's what we'll do."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," I sigh. If it makes him feel better, I can't say no. I'm no longer sure I even want to say no anyway. "But can I ask for one favor?"
"Name it."
