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She stares at him flatly. “Really? That’s what you’re going to ask right now?”
“I think he’s in love with you.”
She rolls her eyes at him. “No, you idiot. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I’ve been in love withyoufor years.”
The words hit his heart like a blow. He kisses her hand.
“Don’t worry,” she says quietly. “I’m not waiting for you to say it back.”
Does he love her? Can he love anyone? This is a serious question he has for himself. But he decides if he could love anyone it would be Mirabelle. Snowflakes tap the window glass, wind howls.
She leans in to kiss him. He touches her face.
“I do,” he whispers. “I love you, Mirabelle.”
He’s not sure he means it, but it makes her smile and fills her eyes with tears.
“So,” she says, sitting up and wiping her eyes. “Police found Lolly Morris.”
He tries to sit up. “They did?”
“Well, that little bookstore owner and her pal Raccoon?”
“Badger?”
She nods. “Apparently, they found some evidence that led them up to a property owned by the Blacksmith family. They found Lolly Morris alive, and the brother—Chester Blacksmith.”
“Chet,” he says, releasing a breath. The pieces click into place. Another couple days and he probably would have figured it out himself. He pushes back a rise of frustration that he didn’t get to the story first, but tries to remember that it’s all about the truth and justice for the victims, not about him. Chet. The stoner. He should have known. He bets Handy is involved somehow. Oh, God.
“My appointment with Handy,” he says.
“Postponed,” she says. “The bullet broke your arm and grazed your torso. Lucky you’re carrying around that extra weight.”
“Hey.”
She pats him on his belly gently. He realizes that his arm is in a cast, that his side is heavily bandaged.
“Roger’s got a longer road ahead than you do,” she says with a frown. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse, Harley.”
“Did they find the other bodies? At the Blacksmith place?”
The search he had Rog do, the properties with more than five acres within a certain radius of the disappearances. That’s when he would have figured it out. Madeline Martin beat him to it. Figures. Bookworms always make the best detectives.
“I have my ear to the ground,” says Mirabelle. “They’ve found a site that might be graves. But that investigation will take months, forensic analysis.”
“It’s them. All of them,” says Harley. “I know it.”
“Remember whatNew York Magazinesaid about jumping to conclusions.”
“I remember every word of that article.” He groans with the pain that’s starting to make its debut.
“Some fair points.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Mirabelle has dried her tears, and is now clutching her smart phone. “Up for an Instagram Live? Your fans are worried. A hospital bed appearance would be amazing.”
He thinks about it. “How do I look?”
