Chapter 22: Boring and Kind

By eight that night I was on Holt's sofa with my knee in a bag of frozen peas.

Cass had gone home with half of the leftover chili and a promise to tell the story at work as many times as it took.

The deputy had come by, alone, to say Brent's complaint was withdrawn.

"He's got other problems," he told Holt, and shook his hand.

Now the apartment was quiet.

The garage door rattled down below, and I heard Holt and Dacey talking in the shop, their voices low and rough from the day.

Bear lay across my lap, which was not good for the knee, and I let him.

They had left the stairwell door ajar, and every word came up to me.

"You did it," Dacey said. "You stood there."

"I almost didn't."

"I watched your hands. I thought you were going to take the stage apart."

"I wanted to."

"But you didn't, because I asked."

"Because you asked."

A pause, and the clink of a wrench set down on the bench.

"Dace, I need to tell you something, and you can't be funny."

"I'm never funny."

"You're always funny."

"Fine. I'll try."

Holt took a long breath, and I heard it from the sofa.

"I'm in love with her."

I stopped breathing.

"I know," Dacey said gently.

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