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André hadn’t been aware Lionel had any family living in the area. As far as he knew, Lionel had been married at one time, but they’d divorced a decade ago. His ex-wife had moved out of town to Morton or Vader. André made a mental note to ask Carol about Trent’s family.
“I hope everything is okay.”
“It’ll be fine,” Lionel replied dismissively.
“Have a seat, Lionel.”
Lionel blinked, his gaze darting to the chair and then back to André. “I should relieve Deputy Cooper, sir.”
“This won’t take us long,” André said with a toothy smile that did not reach his eyes.
Deputy Trent stomped out of André’s office five minutes later and took a right turn toward the parking lot at the back of the building. He was not pleased about being sent to a Cultural Sensitivity and Bias Training workshop, and André didn’t expect the class to make much of a difference. But down the road, when Lionel Trent failed to change his way of policing and was released from the force, André would be able to say he’d tried.
* * *
By the time he arrived home, André had completely forgotten about the text exchange with Dante. He was beyond exhausted. For a minute or so, he sat behind the wheel of his trusty Jeep and eyed his dark and presumably cold house.
It was very much the outlier on the block. Holiday decorations did not cover every inch of the exterior. No tree. No lights inside. Nothing. His lot was a void in a galaxy of blinding, colorful lights.
The clock on the dashboard told him there was still time to grab something to eat at The Steam Donkey but that Pizza Mart was closed already. His stomach rumbled in complaint, but his fingers made the decision for him, unlocking and pushing the car door open. He did not want to be that pathetic single man who ate at the diner most nights, sad and alone in a booth with a stained plastic red-checkered tablecloth, always ordering the roast beef sandwich and a slice of pie. That way madness lay.
He opened the door and climbed out.
As he approached his porch, André abruptly remembered Dante’s texts and a jolt of hope shot through his chest. He might not have to eat popcorn for dinner after all. But the closer he got up the walkway, the more the spark of hope faded. There were no grocery bags waiting by the door. Dante had obviously come to his senses and decided André could fend for himself.
“Stupid André. What were you thinking?” he muttered as he dug in his pocket for the house keys.
Fine. That was fine. He didn’t want to get used to Dante’s presence in town anyway. Soon enough, he’d be gone again.Although, a little voice said,would he?With a niece to look after? André pushed the thought aside.
“You’re a grown adult, André. Act like it.”
Maybe a good start would be not talking to himself on the front porch.
His front door opened directly into the living room, which ran the width of the house. At one end of the room was a quasi-eating space, and the other side was taken up by the couch and TV. Reaching to the right, André flipped on the overhead light and then shrugged out of his damp raincoat, hanging it on the coatrack next to the entrance. Then he crossed over to the couch and sat down, tugging his heavy police-issue footwear off his feet.
“Jesus, that feels good.”
His stomach growled, reminding André that instant noodles eight hours ago were not enough to hold body and soul together for long.
With a groan, he heaved himself up again and headed into his small but well-designed kitchen to the refrigerator. Surely, the sentient vegetables wouldn’t attack.
He blinked against the glare of the light from inside the fridge, shut the door, then opened it again. The contents absolutely had not been there that morning: a carton of milk, a small container of cottage cheese, a deli bag of sliced ham, and another of roast beef.
“What the fuck?”
The groceries he had not put there didn’t reply.
“What the fuck,” he repeated as he slammed the door shut and went in search of his cell phone.
A:What the fuck.
There wasn’t an immediate response to his text. André glared at the screen as if, by willpower alone, he could force Dante to answer. To explain why he’d broken into André’s house and left groceries in his refrigerator. André made a mental note to have a security company come out and set up a system. He’d never felt the need for one before because he’d lived in an apartment building. Admittedly, he’d never worried about someone breaking in and leaving things instead of taking them, either.
“This is fucking ridiculous,” André muttered.
Five minutes later, there was still no response, and André did something he’d restrained himself from doing months ago. He sat down on the couch, opened his laptop, and searched for Dante’s address. He hadn’t wanted to know where the man lived—or rather, he had, but since André had left Portland to start a new life, it had seemed a poor decision to chase down someone from his old one.
He typed in Dante Castone and pressed Enter. There were no results, which wasn’t really a surprise. Dante was not publicly listed as living anywhere in or around Cooper Springs. But André knew the man lived in town—he’d said his niece went to the high school.
