Page 57 of Gave Proof Through the Night

He backs me up until my spine hits the railing. Cold iron against my shoulder blades, nowhere left to go, his hand braced on the rail beside my hip like a cage.

“I’m not scared of you.”

“You should be.” He says it lightly, and that’s almost worse than if he’d shouted it. “I saw you in May, you know. Standing half a block down, watching the front steps of the museum like you thought I wouldn’t recognize a face I’ve spent six years waiting to see again.”

Something cold drops straight through the floor of my stomach.

I told Sal he didn’t see me. I turned the corner before I was made. I was almost certain.

He completely invades my space now, close enough that I have to bend backward over the railing just to keep any distance at all, one finger pointed an inch from my nose.

“I can’t prove a thing yet. But I will. So you don’t waste your time being clever with me.”

I turn my head and squint, preparing for… I’m not sure what. Then a blur of blue and white and tan skin and Dennis is off me with a decisive thud as strong, confident hands push him sideways.

“Get your hands off her.”

I look up and it’s Jeremiah. Sweat-damp T-shirt, headphones looped around his neck, breathing like a man who’s run six miles and could run six more. It’s a genuinely unfair amount of attractive to bring to a life-threatening museum confrontation. He steps into the space between me and Dennis Hobbs, and something in his voice drops half an octave into a deep register.

“Everything okay here?” He scans my face, looking for any signs of distress.

“Just having a conversation,” Hobbs says, hands up, all charm again, the museum-curator smile sliding back into place like he never took it off. “No trouble here.”

“I didn’t ask you.” Jeremiah doesn’t even look at him when he says it. He’s looking at me. “I asked her.”

Hobbs’s eyes travel up, and up, taking in the shoulders, the height, the general structural integrity of the man, and decides to take a small step back.

“Guys… hello? Can anyone hear me? Is that…” Zoe’s voice crashes back through the static, breathless. “Wait. Is that El Señor Hottie?”

I don’t answer her. I can’t. I’m too busy watching. My show’s on.

“Are you okay?” Jeremiah asks me softly.

“Fine,” I manage.

“Who is this?” Hobbs says, straightening his jacket, trying to recover some composure and mostly failing. “Boyfriend?”

“Doesn’t matter who I am.” Jeremiah’s voice is all hard steel as he turns menacingly toward Dennis. “You put your hands anywhere near her again and we’re going to have a very different conversation.”

For one long second nobody moves, and I cannot tell if I’m about to watch a professional hockey player start an actual fight on federal museum property, which would be, historically speaking, an excellent distraction and also a catastrophe.

Something calculating crosses Hobbs’ face before the bravado slams back down over it.

“Go back to Mexico,” he says.

The words land ugly and loud. My whole body goes rigid with fury.

Jeremiah doesn’t even blink.

“Charming. Truly. For the record, I’d love to go to Mexico. The weather’s great this time of year. Beaches are unreal. Maybe when I go, I’ll bring my very American gold medal with me.”

“Ohh.” Hobbs’s smile turns sour and knowing. “You’re one of those.”

“Stop it, Dennis,” I say.

Jeremiah takes one step forward, chest inches from Hobbs’s face, and Hobbs, to his credit, doesn’t run, which is either brave or stupid, and given everything I know about this man, I’m betting stupid.

“One of those, what?” Jeremiah asks, letting the word ‘what’ slap like I’m sure he wants to do to Hobbs.