“Nope.”
“Jaywalking fine?”
“No.”
“Then what the hell do you need help with? If you couldn’t tell by this whole secretary-duty thing, I don’t have an excessive amount of pull on the force yet. There’s only so much I can do. My powers are limited.”
“This favor is not crime related, Chris. Relax.”
“Oh.” His brows pull together. “Then what is it about?”
I murmur a single word.
“What was that?” Chris asks. “You mumbled.”
“Archer,” I repeat, marginally louder.
“Still couldn’t quite make out—”
“Oh for the love of God,” I hiss. “Archer! Archer Reyes. My old friend, your former teammate. Don’t make me say it a third time.”
“All right, all right. No need to yell at me.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m not messing with you. I’m just surprised to hear you asking about Archer when, the last time I saw you, you were pretty adamant about forgetting his general existence.”
“That was before I bumped into him.”
Chris’s face pales. “Shit. When?”
I give him a brief summary of my Fourth of July, skimming over all but the most vital details — the sudden storm, the boat sinking, the eventual rescue. His brows pinch tighter and tighter together as I talk.
“I guess I’ll give you a pass on missing my barbecue,” he says when I finally trail off into silence. “Nearly drowning is a pretty good excuse.”
I choke out a hoarse laugh. “Thanks.”
“So I’m guessing, when you saw Archer, it wasn’t a reunion of hugs and happy memories…?”
“Definitely not.” I heave a sigh. “It was pretty much the opposite in every way imaginable.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Well, I hate to be obtuse, Valentine, I’m just still not exactly sure how this all concerns me. I don’t have insight when it comes to you and Reyes and your strange relationship.”
“There is no relationship!”
“You know, it’s a crime to lie to a police officer.”
“Spare me. You’re a glorified secretary with a taser.”
“She comes to me for help, then she insults me…” He shakes his head in faux-serious hurt. “I’m gravely wounded by your lack of respect.”
“Do me a favor and set that aside for a second. I came here because after seeing Archer…” I trail off, struggling to put my thoughts into words. “The way he looked… Those scars on his hand…”
“Ah.” Chris grimaces. “You have questions.”
“Yes. I have so many questions, I can’t see straight. I can’t sleep at night. And you’re the only person I can think of who might have the answers.”
Suddenly, he’s avoiding my eyes like the plague. “It really isn’t my place to say anything about what went down with Archer last summer.”
“Last week, you couldn’t wait to fill me in!”
“Yeah, well, that was before Archer practically tossed me across the docks for mentioning your name.”
My heart skips a beat. “He did what?”
Chris shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. You’re a sweet girl, Josephine. I like you. I really do. But I have to stand with my boy Reyes on this front. Bros before—”
“So help me, if you call me a hoe right now…”
“Fine. Pricks before chicks. Men before hens. Guys before girls with pretty blue eyes. Males before—”
“Please stop now.”
He leans back in his office chair, pinning me with a look. “I’m sorry. I really can’t say more.”
I chew my lip, trying to hold back the words fighting for freedom. “Can you at least tell me…”
“What?”
“Is he okay? Because… he didn’t seem okay.”
Something in Chris’ expression goes dark. “Okay is a relative term.”
“Is he in some sort of trouble?”
“Trouble is also a relative term.”
“Tomlinson, I swear I will hurt you. I may be petite, but I woke up with violence today.”
“Shaking in my boots, over here. But I’m still not spilling the tea. Sorry, Valentine.”
I make a sound of vexation somewhere between a growl and a groan.
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger! This is not my story to tell. If you want to know the truth about last summer, it’s going to have to come from Reyes.”
“If you won’t give me any details, then you at least have to tell me where to track him down. Because other than roaming the fish docks of Gloucester Harbor for a bearded lobsterman who only vaguely resembles the boy I grew up with, I’m not sure where to start.”
“The docks are actually exactly where you want to start,” Chris informs me, heaving a sigh of deep martyrdom. He pulls the cap off a pen and scribbles something down on a notepad. Tearing off the top sheet, he passes it to me. “Here.”
I glance down at the piece of paper. Beneath the MBTS police department letterhead is an address in navy ink. I don’t recognize the street name, but it has a Gloucester zip code.
“What’s this?”
“Answers.”
“What sort of answers?”
“Relax, it’s not a serial killer’s den of iniquity. It’s Archer’s apartment.”
My brows lift. “He has an apartment? But, what about Bryant—”
“Sorry.” He mimes zipping his lips closed. “That’s all I can give you.”
“Fine. Thanks. I guess.”
“My pleasure.”
I pocket the paper and turn for the door. I might’ve come here for clarity, but I’m leaving even more confused than I was when I arrived.
“Don’t be a stranger!” Chris calls after me as the doors swing shut at my back. “Come visit any time! I’ll let you use the stapler!”
I shake my head, laughing softly under my breath all the way across the parking lot.
EIGHTEEN
archer
The knock that sounds on my door at nearly ten that evening is soft. Hesitant. As if the person doing the knocking is half-ready to run off before I have a chance to open it.
Wondering who the hell could possibly be at my apartment this late, I jam my thumb against a button on the television remote, muting the sounds of the cheering crowd at Fenway Park on my screen, shove to my feet, and stomp to the entryway. It’s probably Tomlinson — the guy just can’t seem to take no for an answer, despite the three texts I’ve already sent declining his offer to watch tonight’s Red Sox game at the Salty Dog over a beer and a plate of nachos.
Need to tell you something, he insisted in his last message.
Life-threatening? I replied.
Not exactly.
Then it can wait, I sent back, before flipping my phone into DO NOT DISTURB mode. I’m not good company at the moment. My bottom lip is still swollen to twice its normal size, courtesy of Jaxon’s beefy knuckles on the docks yesterday, and I have a pretty nice shiner blooming over my left temple. As I walk to the door, I press the bag of frozen peas more firmly against my brutalized face. I don’t bother pulling on a shirt or even brushing the crumbs from my sweatpants as I grab the knob and yank it inward.