Лори Касс - Booking The Crook

My anger blew hot and red, but I kept my voice quiet. “Just because I’m short doesn’t mean I’m weak. Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I can’t take care of myself. I’m not stupid enough to think I’d win a physical contest with a man, but all I have to do is be smarter, which most of the time is pretty easy to do!”

By the end, I’d lost my low and controlled volume, but I didn’t care. A while back, I had taken self-defense courses, and I was also the new owner of a concealed pistol license and, under Ash’s watchful eye and with a handgun I borrowed from him, practiced regularly at a local firing range. Only my aunt and Rafe knew about this, but that was part of the point. The fewer people who knew my capabilities, the safer I’d be because of the surprise factor.

Rafe sat back and crossed his arms. We stared at each other. Then stared at each other some more.

“We’re fighting,” he finally said. “I don’t like it.”

My anger seeped away. “I don’t, either.”

“How about we stop?”

I fiddled with my napkin. “I promised Anya and Collier I’d do what I could and I intend to keep that promise.”

“Does it matter that I don’t like it?”

“Of course it does. It’s just . . .” I looked up at him. The expression on his face was one I couldn’t ever remember seeing before. “What’s the matter?”

For a second he didn’t say anything. Then, “I’m not sure. This must be what I look like when I’m worried about someone.”

“Huh.” I examined him closely. “You could be right. Let me take a picture so we can immortalize the moment.” It was a weak joke, but he smiled anyway.

Our attention went back to the food, and we both allowed the talk to turn to other things, but when I snuggled up with Eddie that night in bed, I thought about what Brendan had said, that Rafe and I were the perfect couple.

“Pretty sure we’re not,” I murmured into Eddie’s fur.

Eddie, in reply, started to snore.

• • •

The bookmobile’s windshield wipers flicked back and forth on high speed, but they couldn’t keep up with the precipitation. “The weather guy didn’t mention anything about this,” I said.

There was no return comment, which wasn’t a huge surprise, since I’d already dropped Julia off at the restaurant where she was meeting her husband for dinner. Dropping Julia off at various locations throughout the county had become a regular practice, but that particular meeting spot seemed questionable.

“Are you sure?” I’d asked, glancing around at the dark storefronts in the teeny tiny town of Chancellor. In summer, the sidewalks teemed with pedestrians and the adjacent lake offered serene vistas with convenient benches for anyone’s viewing pleasure. In January, however, ninety percent of the businesses were closed, and it would take some serious snow shoveling to clear off a bench, even if you wanted to sit outside, which seemed unlikely. “It’s only four thirty,” I said, “and you said he was meeting you around six.”

“My dear,” Julia said in a very upper-crust English accent. “I have a book. If he’s an hour late, it will not matter a whit.” She waved a copy of Joanna Cannon’s The Trouble with Goats and Sheep , put up the hood of her coat, and skipped down the bookmobile’s steps.

I’d waited until she was inside the restaurant, then dropped the bookmobile into gear and eased away. Now it was ten minutes later and what had been gently falling snow was turning into . . . something else.

For approximately the millionth time, I wished the bookmobile had an exterior temperature sensor. Newer models came equipped with them, which I liked to think was a direct result of my numerous e-mails to the manufacturer, but that was no help to me now.

“It’s not snow,” I said. “But it’s not rain, either.” The technical difference between sleet and freezing rain was not something I kept in my head. “I’m pretty sure this is what Josh calls ‘snain.’” The word was a fun one to say, so I said it out loud a few times.

“Mrr!”

“Not quite,” I said. “More of the S sound. And try making the M sound more like an N.”

“Mrr.”

“Nice try, buddy, but without human vocal cords, I’m not sure you’ll ever be able to—”

My attention, which had been ninety-five percent on the road and five percent elsewhere, was suddenly one hundred percent on driving.

The bookmobile had slid. The bookmobile never slid, not like that.

“Hang on, Eddie,” I whispered. Not that he had anything to hang on to except the soft pink blanket a summer boarder of my aunt’s had made to replace the ratty towel that had previously been in his carrier, but the warning was all I could do.

Snow was easy enough for the bookmobile to deal with. The vehicle’s weight and its tires made the typical northwest lower Michigan winter a metaphorical walk in the park. Freezing rain, however, was a different matter. “Hate this stuff,” I muttered. To me, freezing rain was like mosquitoes—absolutely no redeeming qualities.

One swipe of the windshield wipers and my vision was clear; another swipe and the road ahead was a translucent fuzz. I instantly took my foot off the gas and turned the defroster on high. A few swipes later, the windshield cleared enough for me to see what I least wanted to see. Ice was already coating the world, covering mailboxes, trees, houses, and power lines with a skim coat of freezing rain, a layer that was getting thicker and thicker every second.

“We have to get off the road,” I said. The day had never been very bright, and dark was coming down fast. Leaving the bookmobile on the side of the road for someone to slide into was not an option. I had to find a safe place to park until the salt trucks could get out. The only question was where?

My grip on the steering wheel went tight as I considered the possibilities. At this point on the route there were no churches, township halls, gas stations—or any type of commercial establishment—for another ten miles. And none of the public parks in this part of the county were plowed in the winter.

There was no choice left but to slip into the widest driveway I could find and hope I wasn’t inconveniencing the property owner whose driveway I’d just blocked. I scanned the roadside left and right. The few driveways in sight were either unplowed or narrow or both; I wouldn’t risk driving the bookmobile into a driveway that might require a tow truck to get us out.

The freezing rain pelted the windshield in a furiously fast tempo, and the windshield started to glaze over. I reached out to the defroster, but it was already as high as it would go.

“This is seriously not good,” I murmured. We were driving so slowly the speedometer barely registered. I turned on the four-way flashers in spite of the fact that I hadn’t seen a car in miles and wasn’t actually sure there was anyone else on the planet. Dark ahead of us, dark behind us, dark all around—

Eddie howled, a low rumbling whine of the sort that made me want to make sure he was on a hard surface, the easier for cleaning up afterward.

“Are you okay, pal?” I wanted to glance over, but didn’t dare take my attention off the road. “You haven’t sounded like that since . . .”

Since the day we’d found Rowan.

On the same route we were driving that very minute.

I breathed out a soft “Hallelujah,” because Rowan’s driveway was not only bound to be empty, but was nice and wide and only half a mile away, and one of the twins had mentioned that their dad was hiring the driveway plowed the rest of the winter.

Oh-so-slowly, I steered us in that direction, and in relatively short order, the bookmobile slid to a slippery halt. “How do you feel about breaking into a house?” I undid my seat belt and leaned over to release the strap that kept Eddie’s carrier in place.