Before I can work through half the confusion in my head, a deep voice at my left startles me. “How’d you know he’s getting a divorce?”
When I pivot to face my inquirer, my brows fetter. The blond man with his shoulder propped against a tree appears around my age, if not a couple of years older, but he doesn’t look like the academic type. He’s a head taller than me, his shoulders are almost double mine, and he’s smirking at my avid assessment of his body. Although I should categorize him as a threat, I’m not getting that vibe off him. He’s not a comrade either but more a mutual associate.
“His wedding ring finger had a mark the width of a band. It had faded, but not enough to reveal his divorce was years ago.” When he jerks up his chin, impressed, I test the limits of our developing alliance. I shared, so now it’s his turn. “How long have you been standing there?”
When he pushes off his feet, I realize my assumption on his height was incorrect. He’d be a good head and a half taller than me—if not two. He could also be four to five years older than me. “Long enough.” He scrubs at the bumfluff on his chin he wants me to believe is a beard. “Your body-reading skills are impressive. Who were you trained by?”
“I’m self-taught.”
He laughs, calling me out as a liar without words. “Your skills are too advanced to be self-taught, and you don’t give off the vibe of a psychology major, so I’ll ask you again, who taught you?”
A smile tugs at my lips when he folds his thick arms in front of his chest. “The same man who taught me to ignore intimidation.”
I dip my chin in farewell before spinning on my heels and stalking away. I make it halfway across the deserted lot when the stranger grumbles, “Because it’s a form of flattery, am I right?” When I crank my neck back to face him, he smiles a smug grin before nudging his to a large black truck. “Get in. The six-fifteen bus to Dartmore left ten minutes ago.”
I walk toward his truck without the slightest quiver to my steps. You don’t run when a threat approaches you head-on, you annihilate it. This man—I use the term lightly—knows too much about me to be a casual acquaintance, and I’m too curious to find out why to worry about a little bit of danger.
The blond-haired stranger waits for me to climb into the passenger seat of his truck before he jogs around the hood and slides into the driver’s seat without using the side steps for a boost. Before tugging his seat belt across his large frame, he removes a semi-automatic pistol from his hip and stores it in the glove compartment.
His brand of gun is very telling. It’s a four-chamber, nine-millimeter Sig Sauer P226, the weapon of choice for field agents in the Federal Bureau of Investigation. How do I know this? Mr. Gregg put me through intensive weaponry training as well.
The stranger’s turn of the ignition key falters for a nanosecond when I ask, “Have you been with the Bureau for long? If the kiddy fluff on your chin is anything to go by, I’d say not.”
The moon bounces of his white teeth when he smiles, but he remains as quiet as a church mouse.
Incapable of harnessing my curiosity, I slump lower in my seat before interrogating him like I’m wearing an invisible badge. “Your smooth ride would have most people believing you’re a highly ranked agent, otherwise how could you afford a newly-plated truck? But you were hanging out at a local college, which means you can’t be too far up the food chain, otherwise, why would they send you to investigate a college admissions scam?” He drums his fingers on the steering in beat to the song on the radio, acting unaffected by my interrogation until I say, “So that can only mean one thing. You’re not here for Mr. Darcy. You’re here for me.”
His eyes stray from the road to me. “What could you possibly have of interest to me?” He’s asking a question, but he doesn’t give me time to answer him. He simply switches off the radio before slicing my attitude in half with a few well-crafted thoughts. “You’re so punk-assed, you rocked up to an arena without first checking who was playing. Then, after donning a jersey for the team you thought was going to win, you switched your game plan from a plea to a con to an interrogation all within the first quarter.”
“It worked. I stonewalled him.”
His chuckle barrels around the cab of his truck. “You didn’t do shit but make more work for me.”
His laughter is nipped in the bud when I say, “So you were there for Mr. Darcy? What could he possibly have that you need?” I ask my question with the same mocking tone he used on me earlier. “Unless he’s the little fish you’re hoping will lead you to the big pond… then you might have a chance of gaining Daddy’s stamp of approval.”
I realize I hit the nail on the head when the skin under his eye flutters. He’s twitching out, but instead of breaking under pressure, he muscles up. After stretching his long arm across the cab, he manually forces my head front and center. “Eyes on the road, punk, or you can get the fuck out of my truck and walk your ass to your girl’s dorm.”
Keeping his slip-up on the down-low, I mutter, “Don’t blame me for calling it how I see it. I also don’t recall asking for a ride.”
We complete the rest of the trip in silence. I make good use of the time, although not all my focus is on the nameless giant seated next to me. Half is given to Mr. Darcy while the other quarter goes to my father. I don’t believe it’s a coincidence Mr. Darcy froze up right around the time I mentioned my father. There’s more to this. I just need more than an hour to work out what it is, and the stranger’s lead foot only gave me forty minutes.
When I spot Melody’s dorm coming up on the right, I gather my backpack off the floor of the truck before requesting for the stranger to stop. “Here will be fine.”
I don’t want him knowing the exact dorm I’m going to, especially if he’s investigating my father. Melody has been my girlfriend for almost a year, but the only ties she has with my family is that she was once our next-door neighbor. I’d like to keep it that way.
“Just pull into the front if you can’t find a vacant spot,” I advise when the stranger continues down the lane, acting ignorant to my demand for him to pull over.
“There’s a spot right there,” I garble out a few seconds later, my words strained through the anger clutching my throat. We’re past Melody’s dorm now. Only by a little, but enough to piss me off.
I clench and unclench my fists when his big black truck rolls past another six empty spaces before he eventually pulls to the curb at the very end of the block of dorms. I’m frustrated as fuck he has doubled my walk, but that annoyance has nothing on the fear that rains down on me when I take in the truck he’s parked behind. It’s as rusty and rundown as many other vehicles in this lot, but the last two digits of its tags send my pulse skyrocketing .
73.
With my heart in my throat, I throw open my door and race for the F150 like I did eleven months ago. When my sprint has me stumbling onto an empty cab, I drag my fingers through my hair. The lifting of my arms adds to the twisting of my stomach. The driver’s side mirror is cracked like it was hit with force from a teenage boy lunging at it.
I almost hyperventilate while I add up the facts. This truck has been spotted around Melody too many times to be a coincidence.
When the blond FBI agent rounds the hood of the F150, a fatal flaw in my attempt to protect Melody as her father had is exposed. From this angle, the window of Melody’s dorm is visible from the roadside. Because they angled the dormitories for better energy efficiency, over three dozen windows face the street, but I know the exact one that’s Melody’s. The curtains my mom made out of my old bedspread makes it stand out, not to mention the candle she lights for her parents every night.
