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“That sounds like a great activity for a small child,” I murmur.
“Good way to pass the time.” His focus drifts out the window, seemingly lost. “Too many years to ride out, I guess. I’m runnin’ outta room.” There’s something acutely sad about the way he says that.
“You could probably make some decent money off them—”
“They’re not for sale,” he snaps, his jaw tensing. “Not everything has a price tag on it.”
“Relax. It was just an idea.”
After a moment, he says, “Who the hell’s gonna pay money for a bunch of wooden animals, anyway?”
“People would. Ones as nice as yours, anyway.” I feel Roy’s narrowed gaze on me as I turn off the main road and onto the one that will lead us home. “Before I forget, I won’t be here tomorrow or Sunday to help you with the chores.”
“Why? Where are you goin’?”
I can’t help but hear an edge of something in his tone. I smother my smile with the idea that Roy might be getting used to me being around, might have begun to prefer it. “It’s my birthday tomorrow, so we’re flying somewhere in the morning. I have no idea where.” I’ve been needling Jonah for hints, but he hasn’t divulged a thing. “Don’t worry, though, Toby will be by to help.”
“That big, dumb ox,” he grumbles.
“Hey! He’s a nice guy!” I spare a second to glare at Roy with disapproval. “And a friend. He helped you only days ago, so stop being such a jackass.” I’ve never spoken to anyone besides Jonah like that, and certainly not to any sixty-something-year-old man.
But if there’s one sixty-something-year-old man on the planet who deserves it, he’s sitting beside me in this old beat-up truck.
“He lets Muriel walk all over him,” Roy says, as if that’s justification for his harsh words.
“She’s his mother! He’s being respectful. You should try it sometime.” Not that I disagree with Roy’s assessment.
Roy glares at his cast as if it’s the cause of his discomfort, and not the arm it’s protecting.
“Does it hurt?”
“No, it tickles.” After a moment, as if catching himself on his sharp response, he admits, “Yeah, it hurts some. They gave me a local anesthetic before they started poking and prodding, but it’s wearing off.”
“I’ll bet one of those painkillers would help, when you get home,” I suggest.
He grunts. “I don’t do drugs.”
I check my side-view mirror as an excuse to roll my eyes at his obstinacy. “It’s not crystal meth, Roy. Your doctor prescribed it. Taking a few at night before bed isn’t going to kill you. It might even help you sleep.” Which, by the heavy bags beneath his eyes, he hasn’t been doing much of lately.
“Just a few at night, huh? So easy.” His brow furrows. “Me and addictive things don’t mix well.”
Is that another glimpse into Roy’s life? A dark sliver of his past?
It clicks. “Is that why you don’t drink, either? I noticed you didn’t drink your beer at the Ale House.” He held it, he stared at it, but he never took a single sip.
“First a spy, now a detective,” Roy grumbles, then purses his lips, as if deciding whether he wants to explain himself. “Haven’t had a drink since I came up here, thirty-three years ago.”
But he must have had more than one before then, enough to know that he has problems with addiction, enough to not trust himself taking pain meds when he desperately needs them.
“What made you stop drinking?” I dare ask.
“Life.”
I hesitate, but only for a second—the opportunity is too tempting to pass up. “You mean, your wife and daughter?”
His jaw tenses.
“I saw the picture,” I admit, though he’s probably figured that out. He’s hid it since then, for fuck’s sake.
