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Carrie tucked an invisible strand of hair behind her ear. “The good ol’ boys have no trouble talking, but I understand what you’re saying. Someone to break the ice, so to speak.”
“Exactly. Tomorrow morning at eight?”
“I can’t tomorrow. We have an early staff meeting.”
“You pick the day.”
“I don’t work until ten on Thursdays.”
“Thursday it is. I’ll swing by and pick you up at eight.”
“I can meet you at the cafe.”
“You’re safe with me.” He grinned. “I only kill people in my books.”
She tilted her head, mouth pursed, amused. “You think I’m afraid to be alone with a man who devises ways to commit murder?”
“Are you?”
“You saved me from the tornado. That’s nearing hero status in my book.”
He laughed, flirting, enjoying her. “I’ll need your address.”
“I’ll write it down before you leave. Anything else I can help you with?”
Reluctant to lose her company, though not needing anything in particular, Hayden said the first thing that popped into his head.
“Tell me about the dark side of Honey Ridge. Every place has dirty little secrets. Unexplained deaths. Suicide pacts. Murders.”
“In my library?” She drew up straight, pretending insult though her brown eyes sparkled with humor.
“Perfect place to find an unsuspecting victim,” he said. “Her attention is riveted on a book. The villain sneaks up behind her and—” In pure melodrama, he slid a finger across his throat. “Murder in the Stacks.”
She grimaced. “How about Death by Dewey Decimal?”
“Hey, that’s not bad.” His mind started racing with the possibilities. “A serial killer. I’m good at those.”
“Don’t you dare! There are plenty of places in Honey Ridge to commit homicide.” She gave an overly dramatic shudder. “Please no murder in my library.”
A passing patron shot a strange glance in their direction. Carrie backpedaled. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Mayes. We’re talking about books.”
Mrs. Mayes waved both hands. “No need to explain. Nothing like a good suspense.”
Carrie shot a wry glance at Hayden. “We have the latest Hayden Winters novel, The Last Blackbird, two stacks over.”
“Oh, I haven’t read that one yet. Thank you, Carrie.”
The woman disappeared behind a wall of books, and Carrie followed her with her gaze.
“He’s here,” she said quietly.
Hayden swiveled his body in that direction. The Huck Finn look-alike stood in the entry, wolfing down cookies, a camo backpack over his shoulders.
Brody had lost the battle with the cowlick. The sprout of hair waved like a blond feather.
Hayden watched the boy with his usual curiosity, memorizing the little details. After a few cookies, four of which went into his backpack, Brody came into the library and looked around. When his gaze met Hayden’s, his expression flickered.
Hayden lifted a hand and motioned at him. To Carrie, he said, “A conversation won’t hurt anything. Maybe I can learn something to allay our concerns.”
“Sounds good. Want me to go or stay?”
“Suit yourself.”
“I’ll check the desk and be back in a few minutes.” With her easy, quiet manner, she strode toward Brody. As she passed, she smoothed his hair, said something to him and pointed toward Hayden.
Brody blinked a couple of times and glanced behind him before hitching the backpack higher and approaching Hayden’s table.
“Miss Carrie said you wanted to talk to me?”
“I’m Hayden. Remember from the other night?”
“Sure.” Pale, cautious eyes questioned why Hayden wanted to speak to him. “At Peach Orchard Inn.”
“That’s right. During the big storm.”
“Yeah. It was a good one.”
A kindred spirit, perhaps, in more ways than one? “You like thunderstorms?”
Brody hiked a shoulder. The dirty camo backpack rustled against a faded black Honey Ridge Raptors T-shirt. “They’re okay. Do you?”
“Love them. They’re wildly exciting.”
“Especially when you’re asleep in the woods.” A tiny smile crooked the corners of Brody’s mouth, drawing attention to his cleft chin. Pale eyes twinkled above a splatter of tan freckles. “Camping, I mean.”
“I’ve done that a few times, but I don’t think I’ve ever been caught in a storm that powerful. Did you get home okay?”
Brody’s chipper countenance changed. His gaze dropped to the table. “Fine. Miss Carrie dropped me off. Thanks for letting me stay in your room.” He glanced up again. “Did you write your book?”
“Not yet.” The strangely realistic dream pressed in, messing with his head. “I’m still thinking about it. Want to sit down?”
“I gotta do my homework.” Brody made a face. “English is hard.”
“I feel your pain.” Hayden kicked the chair back. “Go ahead. Sit. I might know a thing or two.”
Brody slouched out of his backpack and took the offered chair. “Did you hate English?”
Loved it, which infuriated his mother. He, she claimed, was sneering at her with his fancy vocabulary and fat books. All he’d wanted to do was learn...and to escape. Books offered both.
“Math,” he said.
“Math is not so bad. It’s just numbers.”
“Do you like to read?”
“Reading’s okay, I guess. Not the stuff they want us to read in school, but Miss Carrie helps me find cool books.” He reached into his backpack and dragged out an English literature text. A golden cheetah sleeked across the cover with verbs falling from his tongue.
Hayden placed a hand on top of the book. “Could we talk a minute before we start on homework?”
Uncertainty flitted across Brody’s face. He fidgeted. “What about?”
I want to know if your old man is knocking you around. I want to know if your mother calls or visits.
Instead, Hayden kept the conversation neutral. “You know your way around Honey Ridge pretty well—don’t you?”
“Lived here all my life.” Brody sounded as if he was ancient instead of eleven.
“I’m new to Honey Ridge, so maybe you could tell me about your town.”
Brody looked bewildered. “Like what?”
Hayden had the fleeting notion that he was about to jump off into uncharted territory. He didn’t get involved, certainly not with kids that reminded him too much of himself. He donated to causes, to literacy, to poverty programs, but he never got involved. Not personally and never more than necessary. He observed, he pried into other people’s business to get what he needed for his books and felt no guilt for refusing to allow them to pry in return. Then he quietly disappeared to write his stories.
Involvement was temporary and surface only. Involvement danced too close to the fire of revelation.
He studied the boy and had a painful flashback of being ten years old and feeling completely alone in the world.
Dora Lee had gone somewhere with her latest boyfriend, which was always a relief to Hayden. Boyfriends tended to dislike Dora Lee’s bookish brat.
The trailer had no heat, no food, and he’d slept huddled inside a sour-smelling quilt between the mattress and box springs for warmth. His gnawing belly kept him awake.
He’d never told a living soul of those cold, hungry days alone. It had been Christmas.
He suppressed the urge to ask the hard questions, knowing Brody would lie the same as Hayden would have. Protect the guilty because they were all you had.
One person, one calm oasis in a world of chaos, could change everything.
Brody needed an oasis.
But Hayden was no one’s savior. He didn’t have the hero gene. His time in Honey Ridge was limited. Brody’s situation, if there was one, was like a knife pressed too close to the bone.
Do the right thing, Hayden.
What if Mr. Franks had been a coward? Where would Hayden be today?
With an inward sigh and confident he’d live to regret the decision, he said, “I have a proposition for you.”
“What’s a proposition?”
“A deal. I need a guide to show me around town sometimes. Got any ideas for me?” Not that he actually needed a guide any more than he needed to get involved with a boy from a troubled home. Potentially troubled, as Carrie had reminded him.
Hayden felt compelled to find out one way or the other. He didn’t need a shrink to know the reasons.
The boy tilted his head and squinched his face. Nose freckles consolidated into a patch of tan across his cheekbones. “The Sweat twins know everything, but they’re really old. They might not have the energy.”
Carrie reappeared. She didn’t say a word, but Hayden felt the quiet freshness of her presence. Brody looked up. “Hi, Miss Carrie.”
She smoothed a hand down the back of the boy’s head. Hayden felt her touch all the way to his toes. Pathetic that he should still long for what he’d never had. He, a man with everything he ever wanted. Except that.
Steeling himself against the bizarre thoughts, he turned his attention back to the boy. “I was thinking about you.”
There. He’d done it. Jumped into the deep, aware that he was projecting his own sorry past and angry parent onto Brody.
Being wrong was acceptable. Being right and doing nothing wasn’t.
Brody lit up. Sitting up straighter, he tapped a hand against his chest, expression equal parts incredulous and excited. “Me?”
“Why not? You can do the job, can’t you?”
“Sure. I guess. I’m not doing anything anyway. And I know everybody in town. Mostly.”
“Great. We have a deal, then. After school on the days you’re not too busy with homework and while your dad is working, I’ll pick you up at your place and you can show me around.”
Brody’s mood darkened. “My dad might not like it.”
“I’ll talk to him first and explain that you’d be doing me a favor and getting paid at the same time. How about that?”
Brody shook his head. “I come to the library every day after school anyway. We can meet up here. My dad won’t have to know.”
That worked for Hayden. Sometimes keeping your mouth shut was the safest way.
Carrie’s soft voice intruded. “Not a good idea, Brody. Your dad would worry if he doesn’t know what you’re doing or who you’re with.”
“Nah, he don’t care about that. He just gets mad if I bother him about stupid stuff that don’t matter to him.” Then, as if he’d said too much, Brody slunk down in his chair and went silent, arms crossed tightly over the raptor logo.
Hayden huffed a frustrated breath. This was between him and Brody. Carrie should stay out of it.
He shot her a warning look and then said to Brody, “Is your dad working tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“What are you doing for dinner?”
“I don’t know.” The words were mumbled.
“Can you recommend a good burger place?”
Brody’s head came up. “Plenty of them around here.”
