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“Let me go,” she said, wrenching out of his arms.
He pointed across the street. “That’s the Lutheran church. Go on in. I’ll send Ellie.”
“Thanks.” She’d taken only a step or two when he called out her name.
She turned back to him. “What?”
He took a step toward her but didn’t say anything.
She rolled her eyes. “Just say what’s on your mind, Max. Everyone has a damned opinion. I’m used to it.”
“Do you want me to stay with you?”
Julia drew in a sharp breath and looked up at him. She was reminded suddenly of how long she’d been alone. “No . . . but thanks.” Without looking at him again, she walked away.
MAX WALKED UP THE CONCRETE STEPS TOWARD THE POLICE STATION. As he stepped inside, the reporters turned on him like a school of barracuda. When they realized he was a nobody, they turned away.
He stood by the door, waiting for the press conference to end, and thinking about Julia.
In that moment when she’d seen the news vans, he’d seen the emotions flash through her green eyes—fear, hope, despair. Her vulnerability lasted for a heartbeat, maybe less, but he saw it, and he understood. Remembered. When the media turned their white-hot light on you, there was nowhere to hide.
He pushed through the waning crowd.
Ellie was at the podium, standing between Earl and Peanut.
He pulled her aside, said sharply, “Your sister is waiting for you in the Lutheran church.”
Ellie winced. “She was here?”
“She was.”
“Shit.”
Max was surprised by a bolt of anger. “Here’s a hint. Next time you gather the press, give her fair warning.”
“I didn’t think—”
“I know.”
“What’s your problem?”
He could hardly answer that. “Just be more careful next time.”
Before she could say anything else, he walked away.
Outside, he paused on the concrete steps of the city hall. All around him, reporters were talking among themselves and packing up their gear. An American flag flapped in the breeze overhead.
Across the street, the white stone church sat huddled in the shade of a mammoth fir tree. When he looked closely, he saw the silhouette of a woman in the window.
Julia.
He used to be the kind of man who would cross the street now, go to her and offer help.
Instead, he went to his truck, climbed in, and headed for home.
As he drove down Lakeshore Drive, the sun began its slow descent toward the lake. At his battered mailbox, he withdrew the usual stack of junk mail and bills, then turned onto his driveway, which was a ribbon of potholed gravel road that unspooled through a nearly impenetrable forest. These were the acres his great-great-grandfather had homesteaded more than one hundred years ago, with the grandiose idea of building a world-class fishing and hunting lodge, but a single year in the wet, green darkness had changed the old man’s mind. He’d cleared two acres out of the one hundred he owned, and that was as far as he got. He moved to Montana and built his fishing lodge; in time he forgot about these wild acres tucked deep in the woods along Spirit Lake. They were passed from eldest son to eldest son as wills were read, until at last they came to Max. It was anticipated by the whole of his family that he would do with this land what had always been done with it: nothing. Each generation had checked on the value of the acreage; each had been surprised by how little it was worth. So they’d kept paying the taxes and ignoring their ownership of the land.
If his life had unfolded as he’d expected, no doubt Max would have done the same.
