He tapped on the roof of the car again. “Are you calling this a work of fiction?” he asked.
“Yes.” More shame.
“Could you say it was based on a true story? Could you say that, in your book?”
“Yes. I could. I don’t see why not.”
“So, you could put her story out there in the world, like she wanted it to be?” he asked.
“Well, it would be a creative interpretation of it, since I don’t have her letters.”
“So you would be filling in the blanks?”
“Yes. But as accurately as I can. Which is why I have been traipsing around your town.”
He looked down at me and nodded. There was another long pause. It looked like he was holding his breath. I held mine, too.
“I think she would want this story out in the world,” he said.
I straightened up in my seat. “What . . . ? What are you saying?”
“She couldn’t tell it when she was alive, but you can tell it now.”
“You want me to keep writing it?” This was the last thing I’d expected to hear.
“But if we do this—ifwe do this—there are going to be some rules,” he said.
“Sure. Whatever. Yes, I agree,” I gushed.
“If you come back to Willow Bay with me, consider yourself in my legal custody.”
“Huh?” I looked at him and blinked a few times.
“If you come back with me, if I let you back into my town, into my house, consider yourself under arrest. You’re not to go anywhere or do anything without me. You’re not to leave my side. And, when this is over, when you have it all, I still want you to go.”
I started to nod. “Yes. Sure. Whatever you say,” I agreed.
“And I want to be very clear, here: I’m not doing this for you; I’m doing this for her. She never got to tell her story and it was her one regret. This is for her. That’s it! Nothing more.”
I nodded again, even though my heart felt like it was being ripped out by claws. “I understand,” I whispered.
“Are you sure? Because I don’t know if you do understand. Last time I thought you understood, you turned your car around and came straight back into town, like a hurricane.”
“This time, I understand. I get it. I won’t do anything without your permission. I won’t do anything else to cause trouble.”
He huffed loudly and then put his head in his hand. “This is probably a monumentally bad idea. I’ve never met someone who causes so much trouble and chaos wherever she goes. And now I’m bringing you back. I must be mad.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled.
“Sorry for what?” he asked.
“Everything,” I said quickly, meaning it completely.
He tapped the roof of my car again—harder, this time. “And this thing between us . . .” He cleared his throat. “This thing . . . is not a thing anymore. You understand that too, right?”
Jesus. Final dagger through once-beating heart. “I understand.”
“Good.” And, with that, he walked back to his car and climbed in.
I started my engine and waited for him to pull off. He did, and indicated that I follow. I made a U-turn on the long country road and headed straight back to town for the second time. This time, though, I had a police escort, and I was to consider myself in his custody.
