I would tell her. But the fact remained Diane might call things off tonight, once she learned the truth.
I stumbled a step and heaved a sigh, heading for the meat counter. I’ll just have to accept it. If she didn’t want us to be together when she knew the truth about me, if she didn’t want me interfering, watching, keeping an eye on things, then . . . I’ll leave Green Valley.
I didn’t want to leave her, but I would. Because I couldn’t stay close by and do nothing.
Coming to the only possible decision given the impossibility of the situation, I finally turned my focus outward and inspected the butcher’s case. The safehouse didn’t yet have an abundance of spices, thus I liked to pick out pre-seasoned cuts to simplify prep. Tonight I wanted to make something nice, grilled steaks maybe. A fancy vegetable. I’d also pick up a good bottle of wine and maybe a box of chocolates. No harm in buttering up the biscuit before taking a bite.
But before the man behind the counter could approach, a raised voice caught my attention and I turned over my shoulder.
Is that Diane?
“I said get your hands off me.”
That was Diane.
I sprinted toward the sound of the scuffle, rounding the canned food aisle just in time to hear Miller threaten, “I’m giving you one more chance here. You better take it or you’re not going to like what happens next.”
What I saw turned my vision red. He had his hands on her, he was touching her, holding her forearms in his meaty grip. His face lowered to hers, his eyes wild. Instinct had me reaching for the man’s neck before he had a chance to do a double take.
Miller managed just a choking sound before I had his arm behind his back, him turned and body-slammed to the floor.
Diane squeaked, clearly startled.
“You don’t touch the lady,” I said, my knee at the center of his back. His shoulder had about two more inches of give before I dislocated it or broke it. “Say it.”
He tried to groan something, but I’d knocked the wind out of him.
“Stop! Please, stop!” She wasn’t screaming, but she did sound frantic.
I didn’t stop. I gave his arm a tug.
Miller huffed and puffed and wheezed out, “I don’t touch the lady. I don’t. I swear, I didn’t—"
“You don’t talk to the lady. Say that, too.” My voice quiet, I glanced up and down the aisle. It was clear of spectators. For now.
“I don’t . . . talk . . . to her,” he managed through his pain and struggling to breathe—both of which made me feel better.
Immediately, I released him and turned to Diane. Her big, beautiful eyes were fastened to my face, looking at me like I was a stranger. I grabbed her hand and marched us both down the aisle, stopping at the end of it.
“Go to your car. Drive to the turnoff just before Moth Run. I will meet you there.”
“I have groceries in my cart back there and—”
I turned and looked at her over my shoulder. Whatever she saw in my features had her lifting her chin, defiance sparking behind her eyes. I thought she was about to argue, and so I mentally calculated how likely it would be for us to draw no attention when I tossed her over my shoulder to carry her out.
Luckily, I didn’t need to. She gave me a jerky, unhappy nod and twisted her hand from my grip. In the next moment, she’d walked around me.
And then she was gone.
Chapter Thirteen
*Jason*
“Mrs. Miniver suddenly understood why she was enjoying the forties so much better than she had enjoyed the thirties: it was the difference between August and October, between the heaviness of late summer and the sparkle of early autumn, between the ending of an old phase and the beginning of a fresh one.”
Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver
To say the atmosphere in Diane’s BMW was charged would be a gross understatement. I half expected to be struck by a bolt of lightning.
She was angry. So was I.
“Are we going to drop the BMW off before heading over?” she asked testily from her spot in the passenger seat. Diane had been using a long-term rental car for driving to the safehouse since I’d pointed out how recognizable her car was.
Presently, I drove. I’d left my bike hidden at the turnoff.
“No.” I adjusted my hands on the steering wheel and checked the rearview mirror. Taking the time to swing by her house now was out of the question.
She huffed. “I don’t know why you’re angry.”
Saying nothing, I flipped on the blinker as we approach our turn, reminding myself to obey all traffic laws and to not speed. The last thing we needed was one of the sheriff’s deputies finding us together. They’d call it in just for the novelty of it. Flo McClure—town source for all rumors, true and false—would then spread it around like jam on toast.
Diane huffed again. “I do not approve of how high-handed you were.”
“High-handed,” I repeated. High-handed? That wasn’t high-handed. She hadn’t seen high-handed.
“Yes. Back there, with Farmer—Mr. Miller.” Diane tugged at the sleeves of her suit jacket. It was the blue one I favored that matched her eyes. “I was perfectly capable of taking care of things myself.”
I said nothing, otherwise I’d shout, and instead continued staring out the windshield. When the silence persisted, Diane began to fidget. My anger deflated, just a little, punctured by guilt.
She didn’t enjoy lulls in conversation. I knew this; she’d confessed a few days ago that silences—especially tense ones—made her fret. My silence wasn’t a punishment and I hoped she knew that. But I wasn’t ready to talk. I couldn’t. Not yet. I was just . . .
Just—
Diane threw her hands up and blurted, “Well, this isn’t going to work.”
I cleared my throat of gravel before asking, “What’s that?”
“You being the silent type.” The words were an accusation. “You are, you know. You’re the strong and silent type. Tall, dark, handsome, strong, and silent. And I’m one of those talking people, I guess. I don’t mind silence when I’m alone. But I want folks talking because I want to know what they’re thinking.”
“You want to know what I’m thinking?” For maybe the seventh time since sliding into the driver’s seat, I had to remind myself to stop strangling the steering wheel. My knuckles were white.
“Yes, I do.” She kept on fidgeting. “So just tell me.”
“Fine.” She wanted to know? Fine. “You are not capable of taking care of Miller yourself.”
“Ex-excuse me?” She roared, twisting in the seat and pressing her back to the passenger side door. “What makes you think—”
“That man wants to hurt you,” I seethed. “You ain’t safe around him.”
“Mr. Miller? Puh-lease. A dairy farmer from High Hill can’t do anything to me.”
I suppressed the urge to shout and ask if she was stupid. She wasn’t stupid. She was the smartest person I knew. So why was she acting so fucking dumb?
Inhaling through my nose, I kept my jaw locked and pointed out the obvious, “Any person lacking in morality, or with intent and desperate enough for violence, can do a great deal of harm to anyone they please.” I slid my gaze to hers and held it as I steered around the switchback. I knew these roads like I knew the hallways in the compound; I could navigate them blindfolded if needed.