“He didn’t murder anyone.” RJ stopped in the lobby of the Shelly police station, tired of sitting on the chairs, and posed her statement to the big man named Jimbo, in his Magnum, P.I.–style Hawaiian shirt, who had arrested—okay, not arrested—but dragged York into the station.
The place had the charm of a used car office—a bare clock, a couple desks, and a wilting plant that sat by the window, plotting its escape.
Jimbo held up his hand. “I didn’t say he did. Calm down—”
“If you add a ‘sweetheart’ after that—”
He held up the other hand. “Never. But you need to keep your voice down. No one is accusing him of murder, but there is a BOLO out for him, and when I ran his prints, it pinged.”
She wanted to like Jimbo, despite the fact that he’d—illegally, she might add—grabbed York’s fingerprints off a soda can and ran them, in hopes of adding background to the stranger in their midst.
Not that she could blame him, a hometown police chief looking after his own. And he wasn’t a jerk about it. He didn’t cuff York or grab him or even march him to the car like a felon. Just asked him to join him at the station.
He did use a this-isn’t-a-request voice.
But he’d offered her coffee as she waited in the lobby and even let York come out and talk to her. It’s going to be okay, RJ.
In what world? Because if the chief had alerted the law enforcement system to York’s whereabouts, wouldn’t someone—anyone—who might be nefarious and watching for his name to ping—let’s say, the rogue CIA group who’d taken him last time—hop in their car and show up to finish him off?
Oh, she’d left calm miles behind in the rearview mirror.
Now RJ followed the chief to his cluttered office. “He doesn’t remember anything. I’m a bigger help to you than he is.”
“I’m aware that he has ‘lost his memory,’” Jimbo said, but he finger quoted it, so how compassionate could he be? “But it’s really out of my hands. People are coming from Seattle tomorrow to question him.”
“People? Which ‘people’?” And she finger quoted that. “Because I’ve met people before, and that’s how he got into this mess.”
“Sydney.”
York’s voice behind her made her turn. He stood in the lobby, wearing a smile, Jethro beside him.
Where had he come from?
“Let’s go,” York said.
Go?
She looked at Jimbo. He gave her a tight smile. “See you tomorrow.”
She still didn’t—
“I’m being released,” York said. “Under Jethro’s custody.”
“Don’t run away,” Jimbo said, and it didn’t sound like he was kidding.
Oh, for cryin’…although with his warning, a plot was forming. What if they did run? They’d done it before, and then York could go into—
“No.” York reached out his hand and caught hers, and her eyes widened. He pulled her out of the building, holding the door open for her.
“No what?—”
“I could see what you were thinking.”
“No, you couldn’t.”
He grinned, something sparking in his eyes. “Listen. I might not know you, but somewhere in here, honey,”—he touched his chest—“I know you.”
“Then, pumpkin, you know that running is our specialty.”
Jethro had walked ahead, so maybe he hadn’t heard them, but York slowed her down anyway.
“What?”
“I’m tired of running. And hiding. And not knowing who I am. I’m going to stick around and talk to whoever is showing up here tomorrow, and then…we’ll see.”
She touched his chest then, felt his heartbeat, steady and warm under her hand, and wanted to weep again, still tasting his lips on hers, the way he’d kissed her, like, indeed, he loved her. I just remember this.
He hadn’t forgotten her. Deep in his heart, he’d kept a place for her.
“I know you, York. I know you wouldn’t murder some passerby. Some kid.”
He put his hand over hers, on his chest. “Thanks. But it freaks me out just a little that the only name I could remember when I found myself bloodied on the side of the road was Mack.”
“That does feel unsettling.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Jethro had rounded back and now came up to them. “Let’s get you home, Mack. Raven has supper on.”
York walked toward Jethro’s truck. Stopped at the door, his fingers still entwined with RJ’s. He took a breath and looked at her, back at Jethro. “So, my real name is York. And this is RJ.”
Jethro looked at them, said nothing. Then gave a short nod.
“I need to ask you a favor. I’d like to ask if RJ can stay with you—”
“York! No, I’m fine.”
His hand tightened on hers and he glanced at her. “No. This whole thing has me…anyway, I don’t know what to think and until I can get my head around—”
“Of course she can,” Jethro said. “Although I liked the name Sydney.” He winked and got in.
They stopped by the B and B and picked up her bag, then RJ got in her car and followed them out of town.
She could imagine that York was filling Jethro in on their conversation.
She was trying to sort out who might have put a BOLO out on York, a dead man.
Maybe she should call Crowley, give him an update, let him do some sleuthing.
She pulled up behind Jethro’s truck into a gravel driveway. Trees bordered the long drive, but as they drew closer to the lake, the road opened up, and she spotted other homes in the dips and valleys along the lakeshore.
Jethro’s home was a single-story cedar-sided cabin with a wraparound porch that overlooked the lake. A little piece of paradise tucked away.
She got out and York was waiting for her. “Listen, so, uh, I probably need to have a conversation with Raven. She has a little crush on me…”
“A little one? Hello, Mr. Oblivious.”
He smiled. “Fine. Gimme a second.”
She nodded and followed him onto the porch but sat in an Adirondack chair as he went inside.
She couldn’t hear the conversation, and Jethro came out and sat beside her.
“That’s not pretty in there,” he said and glanced over at her. “I tried to warn my daughter that Mack had his secrets. But he’s a hard guy for a young girl to ignore.”
She sighed. “For the record, I didn’t come to town looking to break hearts. He’s been missing for over a month, and everybody else thought he was dead.”
“He looked dead when I found him in the park. Beat up, bleeding, his wound was starting to get infected. He looked like an escaped convict, except he was wearing a dark leather jacket, blue jeans, and dress shirt, which made me think he might be a PI running from a client.”
She laughed.
He met her smile. “So…who is he?”
Oh. Uh. “He…he used to work for the CIA.” Sure, that much she could tell without giving him away.
“And what happened?”
“He was arrested…except not really because the people who took him were…well, they weren’t who they said they were, and that’s all we really know. York has the rest.”