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Over and over, the whoosh of arteries drowns out sound until it becomes my sole focus. The heavy push and pull of my body working overtime is the only anchor I have in this strange new world.
“Miss Hart?” The words push through the wall of shock and sound. “Miss Hart?” It has a Southern drawl that doesn’t belong here in the north. Subtle, but not. I find myself blinking and looking up at a smiling face. “There you are, sweetheart. Mind if I sit?”
I want him to keep talking. His cadence is slow and steady, anchoring me in this moment that has kept me unfocused for an unknown length of time.
Licking my dry lips, I give him a small nod, and just like that, the world crashes down around me. Events trickle into my awareness, and it’s like I’m just waking after hours of sleep full of nightmares and daydreams tangled into one.
Blinking against the harsh lights that the cops set up in the diner, I look around as people weave in and out. Many are locals, some aren’t. I see our police department and the coroner, but then there are many faces I’ve never seen before, and they are wearing jackets with three bright yellow letters.
“When did the FBI get here?” I grip my cold cup of coffee and pull the mug close to me as though it’s enough to shield me from everything that happened.
“Well, Miss Hart…” The man slides into the seat across from me. He’s wearing one of those blue coats with the FBI lettering on the back, but there is more to him than that, so much more. He is older than me by at least a few years, and laugh lines wrinkle the sides of his deep set eyes, which might be more due to a lack of sleep than biology. He’s also tan in a way I could only ever dream of, making his teeth stand out starkly when he smiles.
He looks fake in that Barbie meets Ken kind of way, but his smile is genuine, and he oozes safety. His aura is full of a protective vibe I desired most of my young adult life, yet he’s unkempt, with his shirt partially tucked into his jeans and his long, dirty blond hair brushing his shoulders.
I realize then he must have been talking to me, and a flush creeps up my face when I have to cut him off. “I didn’t hear a damn word you said.”
“No problem, Miss Hart.” He gives me a patient smile, one that doesn’t make me feel like he is just placating me. “We got here a little while ago.” He clears his throat and looks over his shoulder at the kitchen, where I can hear cameras going off, followed by a flash. “Is there anyone I can call for you?”
“No,” I whisper, my fingers tracing over the edge of my phone. I already texted Tate to let her know I wouldn’t be home on time. That was hours ago. I didn’t want to call and wake her or Milo. “I texted whom I needed to.” I also didn’t give her details. I’ll save those for later.
“Good. Good,” he says in a slight twang that gives me cowboy vibes. “You think you can walk me through the night one more time, and then I can take you home?”
Home. To what? Sleep? Let my thoughts run wild? No, I don’t want that.
“I already told the police everything.” I lift my cup of coffee and sip. Over the rim, I look around the dining room. A few local cops are arguing with another guy in a blue coat.
“Well, see now, I’m FBI, not the Lenora police,” he drawls.
Lenora doesn’t want him here. I can see it in the way the cops keep looking over at me, in the strain on their faces and the ruthlessness in their eyes. “Why is the FBI here?”
“Let’s start over, shall we?” he says, holding his hand out to me. “I’m Special Agent Matthew Hayes. You can call me Matty if you like.”
I glare at his hand momentarily before setting my cup down and sliding my palm into his. My clammy hand meets his warm one, and it chases away the chill of the night and replaces it with something that feels warm and comforting.
Matthew Hayes is an interesting man. In any other setting, I’d imagine him wearing cowboy boots and riding a horse with a dog at his side while chasing sheep back into a pasture. He is out of place here in the northeast. He sticks out like a priest at a drag show, and yet somehow, he’s relaxed like he doesn’t have a single care in the world.
I roll my hand back and slide my palm down my pant leg, removing the last of that clammy feeling brought on by Sal’s murder. Logically, I know why Agent Hayes is here.
There’s more to the story.
“Well, Agent Hayes…” I swallow and spin my coffee cup, trying to avoid the stares of the locals. “I’m Charlotte Hart, but you already know that, don’t you?”
“And you’d be right, Miss Hart.”
“Don’t call me that,” I interject. “Call me Charlotte.”
“All right, Charlotte. Why don’t you walk me through the night?” He phrases the question more as a demand, yet it’s in that off-putting Southern drawl.
“Why are you here?” I won’t allow him to skip that part. Something inside of me needs to know why the FBI is here. I can’t let it go.
Matthew Hayes follows my gaze, which lingers on our local police department. He may have a silver tongue, and he may know how to make me feel safe with him, but he is still a stranger, and this town is my home. These people are my family, and my boss is gone.
Why?
“What do you know about your boss, Charlotte?” He swings his gaze back to mine, and I blink to focus on him.
“Sal?” I question, even though we both know that’s who he is asking about. “He’s a good man,” I whisper and trace the wood grain on the table. “He gave me a job when no one else would give me a chance. He set me up with my landlord and helped me find a home. I don’t know why anyone would want to kill him. Sal didn’t have enemies.” I flick a rogue tear off my cheek. I didn’t think I had any more of those left in me. After calling 911, everything slammed into me all at once, and now it’s nothing more than a blur.
