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“No shit?”
He baits his hook. “Yeah. I used this pickup line I found on the internet.”
I wait, but when he doesn’t add anything, I say, “Go on, let’s hear it.”
“All right.” He sighs. “ ‘I’d put your picture in my pocket before I went to war.’ ”
“Not bad. I’ve heard worse.”
We spend the next five minutes listing off the worst pickup lines of all time. I hate to admit it, but this is easy. Arch is low-maintenance. It’s like hanging out with my brother used to be—if I were also wondering if Walker ever stashed a dead body in the woods.
There’s a pause, just the creek gurgling and wind ripping through the aspens. Then he casts his line again and says, “You and Sophie don’t seem like you’ve been married for years.”
I go stiff. “What do you mean?”
He laughs it off. “You’re not annoyed with each other yet.”
He didn’t see the whiteboard diagram Sabrina made me on how to properly stash our knives in an Airbnb. “Guess we’re still in that honeymoon stage.”
“Yeah. You two are good together,” he adds, squinting at the water.
“What makes you say that?”
He reels the line in slow, then flicks it back out. “Come on, you know what I mean. She organized the barn’s pantry last Wednesday, while you just watched and ate an expired tuna packet until she finally told you to grab a broom. That’s puzzle-piece shit.”
I grunt, thinking about it. The other day, she put a reminder in my phone that said Don’t park near cameras on 52nd. I didn’t even know there were cameras on Fifty-Second Street, but it saved me from a parking ticket and getting my plates in the system. And she said the most hilarious thing about belt buckles yesterday. I almost spit out my latte. So what if every time I think about her mom killing Walker I want to choke Mommy Dearest until her eyeballs burst?
Everyone has in-law problems.
“Yeah, well. I’m one lucky bastard,” I say, and it doesn’t even feel like a lie.
My phone buzzes.
I have to pull it out of the plastic waterproof baggie, and it vibrates three more times by the time I get it out. When I check the screen, my stomach plummets.
WIFEY
black g-string
WIFEY
the blackest, stringiest panties I own
Shit. I could text her back, but we can’t get specific because that would leave a trail. Should I call her? I should call her. I glance at Arch. He’s watching the fish. Still, I use code.
The phone rings, then: “Lawton?”
She sounds out of breath, and that has me imagining every worst-case scenario. Damn, how does she live like this? I’m sweating through my flannel, worrying about her.
“Hey, baby,” I say, squinting into the sun. “Tell me about these panties.”
Arch’s brow lifts. “I’m gonna step over here,” he says, giving us a few feet of privacy.
“I’m trapped,” Sabrina says on the line. Her voice shakes. “I found the workshop. There’s a hatch door, and it leads to this underground basement and a bunch of wigs, but it locked when I jumped down, and I swear if you give me shit for this, I’ll—”
“Take a breath,” I say. “Everything’s gonna be fine.”
“Everything good, Luke?” Arch calls out over the streaming river.
