Текст книги "Hemlock Veils"
Автор книги: Jennie Davenport
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
Half the diner’s occupants snickered—even Nicole, who usually treated him with uncharacteristic kindness. But Ms. Ashton gave Sheppy a pleasant smile, again as though she understood him with one glance. “No,” she said, still smiling. “Nothing like that.”
He walked to her, chuckling nervously. A school boy’s titter. “You sure? ’Cause you look like one, like a pretty Hollywood star.”
Brian threw Sheppy a cold stare. “Sheppy—”
“It’s okay,” Ms. Ashton said, not glancing at Brian. “That’s very sweet of you. Sheppy, is it?”
He nodded through another nervous laugh.
She extended her hand. “I’m Elizabeth. But you can call me Beth.”
He took it, shaking vigorously. “I like you, Beth. Even if you’re not a movie star.”
She chuckled. “I like you, too, Sheppy.”
***
Regina wiped down the counter, hypnotizing Henry with the swift, circular motion of her hands. They went about their work as though they had a mind of their own, and Henry realized he hadn’t glanced at a word on his newspaper in too many minutes, his mind occupied with thoughts of their visitor. He contemplated whether he should finish his coffee when the clang of dishes brought him to attention.
“You know, Beth,” Nicole said, not bothering to hide her irritation. The stack of plates she once held was now on the empty table next to Ms. Ashton, Brian, Eustace, and Taggart. Her hands found her hips. “I got taken once, too, you know.”
Ms. Ashton seemed caught off guard. “Taken?”
“By the monster.” One could hear a pin drop in the silence, and Ms. Ashton’s eyes softened. Henry began feeling sick.
“I’m really sorry to hear that.”
Nicole shrugged while producing the same fake tears she’d been producing the past two years. At first, during the week after her attack, her tears had been real ones, engendered by the trauma. Even he had felt sympathetic. But not now. She’d learned during that week what those tears could get her, and when she did use them, no one questioned them. Because who had the right to question the woman who’d been attacked by a monster?
“I got a little too close to the forest, that’s all,” she finally said. “Before I knew it I was over its back while it ran through the trees. I couldn’t see anything, and it didn’t matter how much I screamed, ’cause no one would find me. It kept me in a tree and every time I thought it was about to eat me, or rip me to shreds, it would leave me alone. I could hear its teeth grinding and hear its breath, but it never followed through. Instead it tormented me.” Tears streamed, and she wiped at them like a pro.
Brian gave in and touched her hand; she didn’t pull it away. “The next morning,” she added, “Sheriff Taggart found me alone in the forest, too scared to move.”
“Nicole,” Ms. Ashton said, even as some sort of suspicious thought brewed behind her eyes. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. That’s just…awful.”
“It was. And I’m not calling Bathgate a liar or anything, but…”
“What are you saying, Nicole?” Eustace said, leaning forward.
“If he really had you pinned like you said, how can you act so…normal? You come in here, knowing nothing about this place and what we go through—what I’ve gone through—and it’s nothing to you.” If it wasn’t Nicole who’d said it, and if he wasn’t Henry Clayton, he would have yelled an amen.
“Look,” Ms. Ashton said, her polite tone faltering ever so slightly. “I’m sorry for whatever impression I’ve given. And I mean it when I say I’m very sorry for what you, as a town, have had to endure. Sincerely. I’m not here to stir things up, and I’ll be gone as soon as I can move on.”
“What do you say we be a little more polite to our guest?” Eustace said, eyeing Nicole until she grabbed the dishes, huffed, and walked away. “After all,” he said at everyone else, “she did save my life.”
“Yeah,” Taggart said. “It’s like you’ve told us already.”
Henry tired of the hype and small talk. Ready to rid his morning of it, he reached for his billfold.
Then Eustace said, “I think all of us would like to know what you think on the matter, Mr. Clayton.”
Henry glanced up to find all eyes on him—Ms. Ashton’s the only ones not wary. He lowered his hand and clenched his jaw, locking eyes with Eustace. “What exactly would you like my opinion on, Mr. Bathgate?”
“All of it. Not that you ever say much, but you’ve been awfully quiet. You’re my biggest advocate when it comes to killing the monster. So what do you think?” The red on his palm stared Henry painfully in the face. Reasons like that wound made Henry hate the monster in the forest, made him detest it far more than anything else in his life. It was the reason he both supported and opposed Eustace’s decision to go against Taggart and track down the beast that left Hemlock Veils living in fear. The disappearance of the beast was something he wanted more than anything, yet injury to Eustace hardly seemed worth it. Eustace may not know it, but Henry had always been fond of him, even before he knew him as Mr. Clayton.
“You think all my hard work is finally paying off?” Eustace asked again when Henry didn’t answer.
Henry stood, throwing his newspaper on the table and pulling a ten-dollar bill from his billfold. He let it fall on the table next to the paper. It was what he left for Regina every day for his horrible cup of coffee. “I think you’re a fool,” he finally said.
“This fool actually hit the target.”
“At what expense, Old Man?” He stepped closer. “I would bet all I have the monster is still out there. So you tell me, Mr. Bathgate, was it worth the injury?”
“Hell yes,” he said without hesitation. “And I’d do it again.”
“Well, don’t.”
“Don’t? Hen—Mr. Clayton, I don’t need to remind you—”
“Things change. I don’t want you out there anymore.” He looked to everyone else, even down at Ms. Ashton who stared up at him with question. He was almost startled by the color of her irises. They were a color he’d rarely seen in human eyes: a green nearly as vivid as his forest.
But then he already knew that.
“No one will step foot inside that forest after nightfall,” he added. “I know Sheriff Taggart has been lax on the rule, but this is me reinforcing it. Is that clear?” He and Taggart exchanged a nod, and Eustace only shook his head.
Before he reached the door, he turned back. “Ms. Ashton, I’m assuming you know who I am, and since you do, you also know this is my town. I know more about it than anyone, even Mr. Bathgate. So when I say it’s in your best interest to leave as soon as possible, you can take that as the best advice you’ve ever been given.” He turned, not giving himself time to read her reaction.
“My best interest or yours, Mr. Clayton?” she asked from behind, freezing him halfway out the door.
He twisted back. “Everyone’s.”
She folded her arms, lifting her chin. “Thank you for the advice.”
A short laugh of disbelief escaped him, and he shook his head. “Let me rephrase. It wasn’t advice, Ms. Ashton, nor was it a suggestion. It’s a stipulation. The moment Mr. Dane has repaired your vehicle, you will be on your way.”
“That sounds like an order.” Her brow tensed and her cheeks reddened. It appeared his pushing only made her more determined.
“Take it as you will. Just know you have no choice in the matter.” With that he was out the door and striding toward Arne.
Chapter 7
Elizabeth strolled leisurely down Clayton Road, admiring the town whose occupants sent her mixed vibes. She, Taggart, and Brian had returned with her car an hour before and now she was allowing Brian to “work his magic,” as he had put it. She already knew it was another faulty alternator, but he had insisted on doing a thorough examination at no extra charge. He’d winked after saying it was on the house, however. She could read Brian Dane more easily than any other resident of Hemlock Veils. His intentions had shone through the moment they’d met the night before, and even more brightly that morning, and the way he tried dazzling her with his baby blues and disheveled golden hair said he usually got what he wanted. She hoped he wouldn’t give her the opportunity to be one of the only women to turn him down.
He would be calling her any moment with news on her vehicle: what needed replacing and how much it would cost, and most importantly, how long she would have to stay.
The truth was, she wanted to stay—despite Mr. Clayton and Sheriff Taggart’s opposition to it. She couldn’t explain her pull to this place, or why she felt so at home when a handful of its residents wanted nothing to do with her. Part of her regretted being so truthful at the diner that morning, not because of the bad name she’d given herself, but because winning over Taggart and Mr. Clayton would now prove impossible. The two most important people in town and they were the two most opposed to her being here.
But she couldn’t help the way her core had heated and heart rate sped when Mr. Clayton had acted as though he owned her, along with everything else in this town. Who was he to give her orders? Who was he to give anyone orders?
Her pace down the sidewalk quickened at the thought of his arrogance, how it had weighted the air when he stood over her table—towered, really, since he was the tallest one in the diner. And that stuffy suit and slick, businessman hair, combed neatly away from his smooth-shaven face and trimmed around his ears. In another life, perhaps one that didn’t give him the superior air of a billionaire, he would be attractive. His ebony-colored suit was well tailored on his tall, sturdy frame and matched the color of his hair, and there was something about his frosty blue tie that made his rich, caramel-brown eyes stand out. His features were the right amount of masculine, including the rugged definition of his jaw, the hooked bridge of his nose, and his uneven smile—his smile that was far more condescending than charming, more condescending even than anything Mr. Vanderzee could produce.
Perhaps that was why Mr. Clayton made every bone in her body twitch with irritation: he reminded her too much of the pompous man she had just escaped, the one that had disowned her due to no one’s follies but her own. And more unsettling was how the entire town of Hemlock Veils seemed to bow before him. As though he’d lived a hundred years, not thirty-something. She had never had it in her to be intimidated by another human being, and she wasn’t about to start now, but she understood why they were. Just from her short observance, she knew the cold and unforgiving Mr. Clayton was the last person she wanted to cross.
She had to convince the town she was worthy to stay, which meant she had to gain control of her words. It wasn’t that she had lied in the diner when she told Nicole she wanted to leave as soon as possible; she simply hadn’t gained the conviction she needed to stay yet. She didn’t know when she’d made the decision to make Hemlock Veils her new home, and didn’t even know if it was possible, but sometime since the diner, she’d known she had to try. She had no choice really, with the way this place spoke to her.
She paused at what appeared to be the end of Clayton Road, standing kitty-corner to the clinic that seemed to have been built from the same red bricks as the Hemlock Diner and post office. Clayton Road shot directly south from Road Thirty-Two then curved, continuing in a southeastern direction, and every other street sprouted from it. The town began at that curve, if you didn’t count Eustace’s wood-paneled house that was closer to Road Thirty-Two than it was to the town’s edge. All in all, Clayton Road couldn’t have been much longer than a mile, if that.
She’d seen everything Hemlock Veils had to offer, aside from residential side streets. First there was the old brick diner and matching post office (even smaller than the clinic) at the top edge of town, on the southwest and southeast corners of Red Cedar Loop and Clayton Road. A couple of blocks down was Center Street: Brian’s shop on one corner, the general store on another, and on a third, the area Eustace called the town square—nothing but an open space floored with cobblestone and accented with a fountain in the center, but charming nonetheless. Just after that was Old Ray’s Tavern, and across from that was the sheriff’s office and jailhouse, which appeared to be no larger than the post office. Now she stood near the edge of town, at the last sign of life on Clayton Road. Residential streets, named after trees or animals, filled the spaces between major intersections, but here, no sign labeled the crossing street, narrower than the rest.
It appeared far more neglected, too, with tree roots breaking through the sidewalk and vegetation overtaking the street. A small white church with a simple cross was just across it, and the clinic at the southeast corner. Where she stood, along the north side of Clayton Road, were a series of abandoned shops.
She peered into a darkened window, the last in the row. The place hadn’t been used in years, but the quaint interior left a cozy tingling in her chest. Once upon a time, during wistful moments in Mr. Vanderzee’s kitchen, she’d allowed herself the daydream of owning her own coffeehouse or bakery, in a place just like this. The open, high ceiling fooled the eye, making the space appear less narrow than it actually was. Black-and-white checkered tile covered the floor, and rustic white bricks that appeared to have been painted more than a few times scaled the walls. Small, round tables were stacked in one corner, probably piled with dust, and a glass counter ran parallel to the far wall in the back.
Retreating into the sun, she squinted to get a better look at the black awning, which flaunted a faint trace of cursive letters. Jean’s Bakery. She pushed down the surge of hope inside and continued her walk. The view had done well to deceive her, but Clayton Road in fact kept going, even though the structures didn’t. Another deception: the street with no name did in fact have one, buried within a hemlock as though ashamed of its existence.
She moved a branch and recoiled at the sign. Henry Street. Henry, as in Mr. Clayton? Regina had told her all about him that morning after he’d stormed out of the diner. How his father, Henry Clayton Sr., lived here before him, and his father before him, Joseph, had been the very one to build the town—starting with none other than his lavish mansion. Had this street been named after the Mr. Clayton she knew, or the Henry Clayton who Regina said had been much warmer than his son?
Forest surrounded her on both sides again as she followed the slight bend of Clayton Road. The next and last street, about fifty yards past Henry Street, hid behind even more vegetation. Clayton Road ended here, at Alder Street, which shot in one direction only: to her left, leading north.
A lane of green moss striped the very middle of Alder Street, suggesting its rare usage. She hiked the gradual incline, curious to find what lay around the curve—behind the trees that cut her off from the rest of the town completely. The moss-covered cedars and firs were especially concentrated here, and incredibly lofty. It wasn’t until she rounded the bend that the mansion showed itself, nestled within the forest. There, at the mansion’s gate, Alder Street dead-ended. Even amidst trees that stretched far above its roof, the mansion looked massive. A certain beauty and mystery settled upon it, she would admit.
Despite the way she felt undeserving of such a place, she approached.
An elaborate wrought iron gate protected the mansion, cutting her off from what appeared to be sacred ground. Pink and red rhododendrons, in full bloom, mingled with a gate as exquisite as everything else. Fleurs-de-lis adorned the gate and vine-wound bars; twisted columns appeared to grow from the center of open flowers, and the tips of rods were perfectly coiled; atop the gate, the fancy letters J and C dominated; perhaps standing for Joseph Clayton, Mr. Clayton’s grandfather and founder of Hemlock Veils. Both the gate’s doors lined up symmetrically, one reflecting the other. The wrought iron fence that extended from either side of the gate bordered the entire estate, disappearing within the protective trees. Out of place was a small but high-tech video screen and ten-button panel at the gate, hidden within one of the rhododendron shrubs. Behind it curled a gravel drive, as well as a lone pathway winding through a well-maintained landscape of hemlocks, more rhododendrons, and nearly every alder species, and leading to the gentle rise of broad steps at the mansion’s front door.
The repetitive but pleasant song of a bird ricocheted within the trees, a series of musical warbles and twitters with a long note at its end. Two goldfinches danced through the air as they flew from tree to tree, their body feathers almost the vibrant yellow they would be in the summer months. Her father hadn’t just been fascinated with the vegetation of Oregon. Together they’d studied the indigenous animal life, one time even discussing how it would be to go bird-watching. He’d been especially fond of the birds, for a reason Elizabeth still didn’t know.
The thought had been thrilling at age ten and dull as an adult, but now she understood a measure of why her father had wanted to. She observed the birds’ habits, grateful for her childhood studies. There had to be birdfeeders somewhere in the landscape, since this species was usually more at home in open, un-wooded areas, but she couldn’t imagine a man like Mr. Clayton doing something as delicate as placing birdfeeders. Perhaps it had been Arne, whom Regina had informed her was Mr. Clayton’s right-hand man.
At last, the birds disappeared in the vines that enveloped the alcove over the front steps. The steps were stone, as was the mansion’s façade all the way from ground to gables. The brick-colored roof peaked into triangles at four different points, the highest nearly as tall as the gigantic trees surrounding it. Thanks in part to the three stone chimneys that jutted skyward from different areas in the roof, the mansion looked more like a few smaller homes compressed cozily together. The cove of stone pillars and archways, scaled by green vines, sheltered the large wooden door, and every squared corner of the mansion—even the window’s borders—was lined in robust and carefully chiseled stone, lighter in color than the other exterior stone. Spacious bay windows made up one of the corners entirely, on both levels, and placed at other random but symmetrical locations were windows so long they appeared to be grandiosely stretched.
Seeing Mr. Clayton that morning may have reminded her of her old life with Mr. Vanderzee, but other than its size, this mansion resembled nothing of her former employer’s mansion, which had been complete with fountains and palm trees and Corinthian columns that screamed Bel Air. Aside from the way this place’s mystery labeled it forbidden, she actually felt comfortable here with the forest that called to her and the mansion that was, really, more magical than intimidating.
She ran her fingers along the rough and textured edge of an iron rod in the gate, one that curled at the end and was speared with a fleur-de-lis. With a twinge of reluctance, she backed away until the soles of her shoes touched the asphalt. She’d spent too much mental energy on Mr. Clayton’s lavish lifestyle, and even more on admiring it.
It wasn’t until she neared the curve on Alder Street—the one that would hide the mansion from sight—that the other hidden treasure revealed itself, not so far from the mansion. Buried roughly twenty feet deep in trees and rhododendrons, and at the end of a paved, cracked walkway, was a house no larger than a single room. Its siding of cedar shingles appeared to be every shade of brown, including the irritatingly pleasing shade of Mr. Clayton’s eyes. Brightly painted red accents brought the home to life: the eaves beneath the peaked roof, the boards around the window, the border of the circular window in the only gable, and the door frame. Age and water had left the wood warped.
Alder Street was indeed strange: home to both the largest and smallest homes in Hemlock Veils.
Before she knew it, she was closing in on it. The scent of pine wafted through the air, and beneath her shoes, the soil was still wet. She peered through the only square window on this side. The empty, dark house held nothing but dust. When backing away, her calf hit something metal. A sign emerged from the ground, crooked and hidden well within ferns. It was old, probably forgotten, and when she moved the leaves to find the red words For Sale, her heart leapt ever so slightly. She tried not to hope for something so perfect.
A wind blew, and trees swayed as though fighting it off. Why did the wind quarrel with the elements? Was she mistaken for feeling a clash of energies here? A certain swelling inside her—magic, she would dare say—told her this place was special, that it was meant for her. But the wind that felt like no wind nature created, warned her. The subtle whooshing in her ears spoke threats.
Chills scaled her arms, rising up her neck and to the crown of her scalp. Instinct told her to stand her ground; she did, planting her feet. So maybe some Hemlock Veils residents didn’t want her here, nor did this otherworldly force; but the forest did—this house did—and this magical bit of Mother Earth (yes, she could indeed say it was magic now, and wished to tell her father of it) felt more trustworthy than some uncertain humans and an unsteady wind. Or even a beast who probably had a little more than something to do with these clashing energies.
Just as she escaped the greenery, her phone vibrated in her pocket, startling her. It displayed a number she didn’t recognize, and she put it to her ear while walking south on Alder Street again, toward the main part of a semi-civilized town.
“Hey, Beth,” Brian said. “It’s me.”
“How’s it coming?”
“Looks great for the most part, but I’d rather talk in person. Where are you? Sheriff Taggart and I have been looking.” She wondered what Sheriff Taggart usually did all day in a town of no law-breakers—on days he didn’t have to contain an outsider. Suddenly, she was nervous, even though she hadn’t technically broken any rules.
“I took a walk.”
“A walk?”
She almost laughed. “Not through the forest. I was just taking a look around town. I’m turning back onto Clayton now, from Alder.”
“That means you saw the mansion,” he said, his tone enlightened.
“It’s…impressive.”
“It’s private. And that’s how Mr. Clayton likes it. You might not want to tell him you went snooping around his place.”
“Snooping? I was hardly snooping. I was just—”
He laughed. “It’s okay, Beth. I’m just messing with you. I’ll see you when you get here.”
She hung up with a simple goodbye, and as she neared the small and neglected Henry Street, she took a deep breath. It wasn’t that she thought Brian a bad person—in fact, most people would find his charismatic personality likable—but there was something about him that left her guarded. Perhaps it was simply because she had never let herself be wooed by any man who pursued her, and finally being free of all that used to tie her down exposed her. Part of her wished she had the excuse of her brother and job to hide behind again, just to make rejecting him that much easier.
And that thought made her heavy with grief, as well as regret that she thought it.
But something told her it wasn’t just her recent availability that made her uncomfortable with Brian. It was something about Brian himself—the way he was nothing she would ever want in a man, had she actually had enough experience to make a list. Regardless of the reason, she mentally prepared herself for the way he might use her car’s condition to his advantage. Mostly, as she walked she prepared the words she would use to reject him.
***
Brian stood outside the open garage of his shop, his navy-colored jumpsuit stained in oil. As though he’d had nothing else to do but wait for Elizabeth. He smiled, wiping his hands on a holey, stained rag and flinging it over his shoulder. “Enjoy your walk?” he asked when she reached him. Still he smiled the smile that could be owned only by Brian Dane.
“Very much,” she said, folding her arms. “So what’s the damage, Brian?”
“You’re lucky. Everything besides the alternator looks top-notch. I’m not sure where you got it, but it was in bad shape. I’m surprised it got you this far.”
She looked sheepishly to his feet. “A scrap yard is where I got it.”
“Ah. Trying to save a buck?”
She met his blue eyes, shrugging.
“Well, don’t worry. I won’t mark up your price. Tell you what, I’ll charge you what it’ll cost me to order the alternator and the very minimum hourly rate for labor, and that’s it. By the time we’re done with everything, you’re looking at two-fifty out the door. You won’t find a better deal.”
“Thank you, and I’m sure I won’t. How long will it take to get the part in?”
He rubbed the back of his neck with blackened fingertips, cringing in an overly dramatic way. “See, that’s the thing. Parts for a ’91 Saab 9000 aren’t easy to come by. I found a place that could get it to me in two days, and with it being the weekend that’s a miracle. So…looks like you’ll be sticking around for a while. Sorry, Beth.”
There it was. Secretly, she jumped for joy. Not because she would get to see Brian again, of course, but because a couple more days would be good for her cause in trying to win over the town. Or at least Taggart and Mr. Clayton. How she would do that, she didn’t know. A small part of her said to stay holed up in her motel room for the next couple of days, then leave town the very moment her car was ready, as she was sure Taggart would want.
“Thank you, Brian,” she said, trying not to smile too cheerfully. She retreated when he seemed to pick up on her excitement, a smile of his own twitching the corner of his mouth. “I’ll let you get to it.”
***
Elizabeth sat on the edge of her springy bed, staring out the large motel window. Tonight rain didn’t obstruct her view, only darkness. People probably mingled at the diner right now, maybe even talked about her. It was strange, and perhaps detrimental, that she would rather stare at trees in hopes of seeing the monster than chit-chat over a horribly bitter cup of coffee.
She stood, put on her light jacket, stuffed her motel key into her pocket, and left her room. Alone at the top curve of Red Cedar Loop, she took slow steps toward the diner. It was true what she’d said that morning, strange or not, about how she felt safe in these woods. Thoughts of that haunting wind from earlier, as well as this darkness, threatened that safety ever so slightly, but her mind and eyes adjusted quickly. She paused at the corner instead of crossing Clayton Road, when that same awareness of watching eyes hit her. Directly behind her, his stare felt like a physical pressure against her back. He was close.
She tried putting herself in Nicole’s shoes, ever so briefly; even Holly Farrell’s. Had they felt the same awareness before they’d been taken? Had there been any curiosity in them as they’d made eye contact with him, or had every emotion or thought been flooded by pure, unbridled fear?
Elizabeth turned, slowly. The chill up her spine left her wary, but curiosity—and the same amazement from the night before—won out. A branch cracked and leaves rustled a short distance ahead. She made out the large black silhouette of his mass, rising against a tree no more than ten feet away. He breathed, slow and deep.
She stepped closer, fighting her urge to run, and touched the trunk of a cedar, damp from the absence of sunshine. Again, the mysterious instinct that guided her confirmed he wouldn’t harm her. So why didn’t he take her? Why would he take someone like Nicole, and not her? Did her lack of fear threaten him? And why did he take Nicole in the first place, if his intention wasn’t to harm her?
“Beth?” Regina said from behind, interrupting her many questions. With a violent shake in the trees, the beast was gone. Elizabeth turned. “Is that you?” Across the street, Regina folded her arms over her uniform and stood in front of the diner, peering in Elizabeth’s direction.
Elizabeth crossed the street, reluctantly. “Yes, it’s me.”
Regina sighed and placed a hand to her heart, relaxing her shoulders. “Good Lord, you nearly gave me a heart attack. What are you doing out here anyway?” She lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “And by the trees?”
“Nothing, I was just—”
“I swear.” She glanced around to make sure they were alone. “If Sheriff Taggart finds out…”
“What’s he going to do, put me in jail?”
With a hand on her hip, she harrumphed. “You’d be surprised.”
“He’s not going to find out, okay?” She made eye contact. “Right, Regina?”
Sighing, Regina lowered her shoulders. “I like you, Beth. You just worry us, you know.”
“I thought I heard something in the trees. I didn’t know if someone was there. I wasn’t going to go in.”
Regina’s voice returned to that harsh whisper. “You heard something? Heaven’s sake! You could’ve been taken! I don’t think you realize—”
“You’re right, and I’m sorry. It was careless. It just might take me some time to get used to the rules.”
She narrowed her stare. “You say that like you’ll be staying some time.”
“You mean Brian hasn’t told the whole town by now?”
Her laugh was clipped, nearly a snort. “Usually would, but he ain’t in here tonight.”
“Is that normal?”
“It is when Nicole ain’t working.” Regina pulled a cigarette from the breast pocket of her uniform and lifted her brow before lighting it. “You mind?”
“No, go ahead.”
“You should mind. Someone needs to stop me. Lord knows I’ve tried.” She placed the butt between her lips and lit the end, her deliberate drags making the tip glow brighter with each inhale. “I take it he couldn’t fix your car.”
“It’ll be a couple days before the part gets here.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “I have nothing to get back to if I’m being honest—nowhere to go. So, I guess I’m…okay with it.”
