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I stop staring at her mouth and slide my gaze up to her eyes, ice blue in the center that feathers out to a darker shade around the edges, and blink. I can’t explain that I was too busy imagining her tongue doing other things to pay much attention to her words, so I just say, “No, sorry,” and feel the back of my neck begin to burn.
She studies me, suspicion making her eyes narrow. “Why do you look guilty of something?”
I clear my throat and palm my coffee mug, then take a big gulp to bide my time. Then I make something up.
“I’m guilty of barely starting my article. My boss expects a rough draft by the end of the day tomorrow, and I’ve written twenty-five words.” Okay, not exactly made up. He does expect a story draft tomorrow. So freaking annoying. I set the mug back down and fold my hands on the table. “I came here to write what I thought was a feel-good fluff piece about a hospital memorial, and somehow I’ve crash-landed into what some say is a murder investigation. Not sure what to do about that. Or if I should do anything at all.”
She licks that fork again before blessedly setting it on her plate, then leans forward on her elbows. “You think what Paul said about Washington Plastics has any truth to it?” I can’t decide if it’s fear, intrigue, or skepticism in her eyes. Maybe a mix of all three.
“I think every story has a ring of truth to it. You just have to figure out the story that sings the loudest. For example, a cheating husband will always try to blame the wife who never has sex with him, but he’ll conveniently leave out the part where he has a porn addiction, compares her to other women, and never stays home. As for her, she’ll keep it to herself that she never really loved him in the first place and only married him to get back at her high school boyfriend. In that case, both stories are true, and both people are terrible, but only one person cheated.”
Billi raises an eyebrow. “That was oddly specific. Is this from personal experience?”
I smile and reach for a piece of bacon. “That particular story was part of a homicide case I covered in Dallas last year. The woman got off scot-free when it was revealed that her dead husband had not only cheated, but had solicited several minors along the way.”
Billi grimaces. “So only one person cheated, but the other committed murder. Sweet couple. How did she kill him?”
“She slipped ten crushed Viagra into his beer when he wasn’t looking. She knew he had plans to meet up with someone that night. Turns out a four-hour erection isn’t the only negative side effect of that drug. She didn’t intend to kill him, though, she just wanted him to be…uncomfortable for a few days.”
A loud laugh bursts from Billi, and she slaps a hand over her mouth. All around the restaurant, people turn to stare.
“A fewdays? That’s awful.”
“Was for him, at least eventually. At the very beginning, it was probably kind of pleasant.” Billi laughs harder, the sound almost musical, one that makes me want to hear it again. Maybe after these interviews are conducted, and this article was written, I can explore that thought a little more.
This leaves me wondering why I’m thinking about exploring anything at all.
I’m Finn Hardwick. I don’t do female explorations. So, to speak.
I also don’t do women with musical laughs and spot-on intuition.
I shift, uncomfortable with the direction my mind is headed.
Maybe “doing” Billi isn’t the best way to think of it.
I inhale slowly and stare over her shoulder, working to rein in my feelings and focus on what I’m here for. The story. Not some sort of cosmic connection with a small-town girl who couldn’t possibly fit into my big city life anyway.
“I think it’s almost time,” I say. “There’s really nowhere to go from here, except the one place you already told me you’re not interested in going.”
Her smile dies with understanding, a cute little crease forming between her eyebrows.
“I don’t think I can go there with you, Finn.”
I wipe my mouth on a paper napkin already partially covered in bacon grease and toss it on my plate. “Then I’ll go by myself.”
“I want to. It’s just…”
“Just?”
“I’m afraid of her. There, I said it. I’ve always been afraid of her because that’s how I was raised. She’s scary. Maybe she’s…a witch? Maybe she’ll kill us both or trap us in a cellar for the rest of our lives?”
I laugh before I can think better of it. This town and its beliefs have made everyone superstitious, Billi herself caught in the irrationality of it all. A witch? A kidnapper? All because she lives differently and doesn’t put up with anyone’s crap? Billi can’t honestly believe something that outrageous.
I stop laughing. She needs my understanding, not judgment. “Okay, but what makes you think that? Is there something she’s done or is this just something you’ve been told all your life?”
She looks more little girl than woman at the moment, the fear turning her mouth down in the corners in an adorable grimace. “She hasn’t done anything. I’m just scared of her.” Something shifts then. A flicker in her eyes as clarity reveals itself. It’s like dreaming of the tooth fairy or wishing on a birthday candle. Everyone does it out of habit. A bit of folklore in our daily routines. But does it ever actually work, or have we all been convinced it might because generations long gone told us that’s what we were supposed to do? Eventually, we grow up, and the truth slaps us in the face.
Truth has Billi pinned in a stare-down, and she’s fighting to free herself.
