When he ignored me—not at all surprising—I continued the conversation as though he was partaking in it. “Oh, wow! You’re from Montana. I wouldn’t have taken you for a Montana guy. You have more of a Carolinas vibe to you. I went to Asheville last summer with my friends. It’s beautiful. Siblings? Yes, I have an older sister, but she moved to France five years ago. Oh … really? You’re an only child? I can see that about you. I think it’s your poor social and conversational skills that give it away.”
The humor died quickly with his total indifference to engage in any sort of personal interaction. Even with my morbid curiosity about him living in the firehouse or staying out until the wee hours of the morning, I could have given up on Slade the asshole. However, the tiny possibility that he saved me that night or even if he just heard about it and chose to protect me through Jericho … well, it made it impossible to walk away—even if he didn’t acknowledge me.
I crawled around Jericho, nestling myself on my back between him and Slade. Staring up at the trees, I let the back of my hand brush his. “Wylder …” I whispered. “Was it you?”
He jackknifed to sitting and grabbed his bag. With the slightest of nods, he gestured for Jericho. I didn’t sit up or say another word. I didn’t try to make him stay. I closed my eyes and imagined him taking a life for me.
The problem? I had no idea why he would do that or if he did it.
*
Later that day, I knew I should stay away, but my feet automatically took me there. I couldn’t resist peeking in on Slade in his garage.
Sculptures.
He welded sculptures. That was what I’d deduced from the configurations on the floor, like a puzzle waiting to be put together. Like everything I thought I knew about Slade Wylder, it was just speculation.
He had nothing to say.
In what had become our routines since the convenience store incident, I slipped into the garage. He ignored me.
I checked my social media pages and responded to messages.
He ignored me.
Occasionally, I’d touch some of the pieces on the floor, trying to figure out what they would make. That always got his attention.
Nothing life changing. Just a pause. On a good day, he’d flip up his welder’s mask and give me a look. I’m pretty sure it said, “You’re crossing a line.” Since he didn’t say the actual words, I kept doing my thing—getting a little braver … a little more curious each time.
“It’s hot in here. And I’m going surfing with the girls. Wanna come?”
He flipped up his face shield and inspected the piece in his hands, sweat trickling down his forehead, snagging on his long eyelashes.
“Well, we’ll be leaving around four. So …” I opened the door. “You know where to find me.”
Nothing.
After closing the door, I heard Jericho bark from the house. A rare thing. I’m not sure I’d ever heard him bark. I followed my instinct—in spite of it failing me fifty percent of the time—and opened the back door to the house.
A holy-shit moment. I was going into the infamous firehouse. Not even the eighty-five-degree day could stop the goose bumps from popping up along my arms.
“Hey, Jerry. What’s up? You okay?” I squatted just inside the door and scratched behind his ears as he licked my face. It was just a kitchen. No big deal. Except it was the kitchen. The place Professor Dickerson prepared meals for his wife and the young college girl he kept in the dungeon.
Then my mind wandered to the other mystery … did Slade have drugs in here? The granite countertops and tile floor were tidy. What I could see of the living room seemed just as clean. No white residue or haphazardly discarded bongs.
“I should leave,” I whispered to Jericho as I slowly stood. Should always had the best intentions. I really should have listened. Instead, I did nothing to stop my feet from moving toward the fridge.
I did nothing to stop my hand from opening it. For some unknown reason, I felt like a map of his daily diet would let me into his head.
No such luck.
Inside were just the basics: eggs, condiments, a bag of lettuce, carrots, bottled water, beer, white butcher-paper wrapped meat, string cheese.
After closing the door, I peeked out the back window and glanced at my watch. I needed to get home, but my insatiable curiosity pulled me farther into the house to the living room with a small, modern gray sofa, a dark blue recliner, a dog bed, and a TV on a console in the corner.
“Go home, Livy …” I whispered to myself, unsure which was more disturbing—the need to talk to myself or the fact that I was seriously contemplating going upstairs.