Chapter 8: Look Out the Window

"It's my ex's," Rafe said.

His voice was perfectly bored.

"A woman left it here in March. She was a bridesmaid at a wedding in Knoxville and she didn't stay for the cake."

"A pearl pin with a bridal shop tag."

"She shopped at a lot of places."

The deputy was quiet.

Above him, with my cheek in the dust, I listened to a man decide how much he wanted to know.

"I'll take it with me," he said finally.

"It's trash."

"Then it won't be missed."

A bag crackled.

Boots went down the stairs, one slow step after another, and then there was the long wait for the car to go.

When Rafe opened the hatch, his face was pale and grim.

"He took the pin," I said.

"I know."

"He'll show it to Dorian."

"I know that too." He lifted me down, and his hands stayed on my waist. "Look at me. They found a pin. They didn't find you."

"You lied to a deputy."

"I lied beautifully."

"You said you were law-abiding."

"I didn't say which law."

I laughed, and then I was shaking, and then his arms were around me, hard and warm, and I held on with both hands.

The dust fell off my hair onto his shirt.

"Come with me," he said into my hair. "Garage. I need to put my hands on something that isn't a cop."

The garage was cool and dim and smelled of oil, and every wall was hung with chrome.

Along the back stood a long steel workbench with a half-built bike on it, frame and engine and nothing else.

His bike, the one from the road, sat in the corner under a tarp.

The whole left side was scraped flat.

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