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This time I don’t get an argument. No man wants to stink, especially one as prideful as Rhett Cohen.
* * *
We ride to town in silence. (Rhett cracked his window.)
I keep looking over at him in the passenger seat, expecting to see an expression of awe and wonder on his face, like a child seeing Disney for the first time. However, he seems totally unfazed by the world around him, despite the fact that he has been confined in prison for twenty years.
Jesse Taylor’s picture is everywhere. Tacked up on telephone poles, duct-taped on stop signs. Everywhere we look—Missing.
I click on my turn signal as we near the shopping center.
“No,” he says. “Keep going.”
“O—okay…” I turn off the signal and press the gas.
“Hang the third left up here.”
“Into the pawn shop?”
“Yes.”
“Wait.” I stop in the middle of the road. “What—what are you looking for?”
“You think I’m going to buy a gun, don’t you?” It is the first time I see a twinkle of amusement in his eye.
“No—I… well, yes, I guess I do think that.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not buying, I’m selling.”
A car appears in my rearview mirror. I hesitantly turn into the lot.
“Selling what?” I ask, pulling into a parking spot.
Rhett pushes out the door the second I shove the Jeep into park. “Be right back.”
I grab my purse and follow him into the pawn shop, my curiosity getting the best of me.
An old man sits behind the counter on a wooden stool, reading the newspaper. He is wearing an old, faded newsboy cap, and a pair of round, scratched glasses on the tip of his nose. Best I can tell, the man doesn’t recognize Rhett—or me. Thank God.
Rhett pulls a wristwatch from his pocket and sets it on the counter.
“How much can I get for this?”
The old man takes his time folding his paper, then limps over to the cash register. His bushy gray brows arch with interest. After ahumph, he retrieves a magnifying glass from below the counter and examines the watch for a good minute.
“I’ll give you $250 for it,” the old man offers.
“Six-hundred or no dice.”
The old man narrows his eyes. “There’re scratches on top.”
“Six-hundred,” Rhett repeats.
The shop is quiet as the man mulls over the decision. Finally, he nods, then pulls six one-hundred-dollar bills from a bag under the counter and hands them to Rhett.
“Thank you, sir.”
Leaving the watch behind, Rhett turns and strides out the door. I am both surprised and relieved when he doesn’t use the money to buy a gun. Which begs the question—how does Rhett intend to kill the man who framed him once he finds him?
