"You were a cop?" one--Bruce--said.
I nodded.
"Retired," Mitch amended.
Bruce laughed. "Retired? Already? You can't be much more than thirty--let me guess. Struck it big in the dotcom explosion, and got out before the implosion, right?"
I laughed with him.
"The rest of us just come out here to look, drool and dream," Mitch said. "Seven more years, Stafford, and I'm buying that woodlot down the road, building a lodge of my own and putting you out of business. You watch."
A few others joined in, joking about retirement plans, partly in earnest, partly to steer conversation away from me. I appreciated the gesture, but one of the first lessons I'd learned when I'd opened the lodge was that anyone who cared to find out my past would.
If my name and face didn't tweak their memory, it would tweak another guest's. Or, failing that, they only had to stop at Mullins General Store down the road and mention where they were staying. Ever since her husband had tried to get me to pay my renovation bill in currency of another kind, Lisa Mullins had decided it was her sworn duty to ensure all my guests knew of my past. "You're staying with Nadia Stafford? Oh, she's such a sweet girl, isn't she? Hard to believe she's a..."
As I leaned toward the flames, I could almost feel
Lisa's breath on my neck as she whispered, "Killer."
I couldn't sleep. Too many thoughts banged around in my head, so I went outside and wandered the paths close to the lodge. The night was cold, crisp, the same fresh air I'd fantasized about the night before, sitting outside New York. Yet here was the real thing, and it did nothing to clear my head or lift my thoughts.
If I could help find this killer, I wanted to. But did I dare?
This job could be a dream come true, a chance to set my dark side at rest, douse the embers for good. Or would it? What had happened to me has happened to countless others, and how many of them had turned into professional killers? We are the sum total of a lifetime of experiences, and while there may be those events that change our lives forever, they are still tempered and molded by all the rest.
If I indulged my fantasy, helped catch the killer and found justice--if not for Amy, for others like her--would I emerge renewed? Would I be just like everyone else, reading about horrible crimes and thinking "what is the world coming to?" but feeling no compulsion to act on that horror, that outrage? Did I want to be like that?
Twigs crackled and I froze. My first thought was "Jack" and hope zinged through me. I could talk to Jack. Get more details, work this out--
"Nadia?" a voice whispered. "It's Mitch."
I hesitated, then said. "Over here."
"I didn't want to spook you," he said as he approached. The moon lit his wry smile. "Never a smart move with someone who knows aikido."
I tried to smile back. Probably succeeded.
"You okay?" he asked. "I heard you leave the house."
"Just getting some air. Couldn't sleep. Lagged from the drive, I think."
He moved closer. "You seemed a little off today. Is it what that kid said?"
"Kid?" It took a moment to realize he meant the rookie's comments. "No, no. Just the trip." I managed a smile. "I'll be fine tomorrow, just in time for the shooting range. Gonna kick your ass again."
"Nothing new there." Now he was the one struggling to return the smile. "I know it must be hard for you, still hearing stuff like that, after all these years, but--" He tilted his head, looking away, as if trying to decide whether to continue. "I just--For five years, I've kept my mouth shut, Nadia, not wanting to upset you, but I saw how you were today after that kid's dumb crack, so I'm going to say it. What happened to you could have happened to me or a dozen guys I know. Circumstances pile up and..." He waved his hand. "Things happen. Maybe you snap. Maybe you slip. Point is, it could happen, and we all see how it could happen."
I nodded. Struggled to look grateful. I knew what he was trying to do, but he saw only that single event. It hadn't been a slip, but an escalation, culminating in one explosive, career-ending move.
I said a few words. Can't remember what. Just token sentiments, meant to reassure him that he'd succeeded in reassuring me. He moved closer, on pretext of blocking the cold night air--so close I could feel his breath, warm on my cheek. I knew he was struggling to put words to something else, something more personal, but I pretended not to notice. It was easier that way. Easier for me. Easier on him.
Maybe five years ago, he would have been the answer to my prayers. Today, I knew myself better, and knew there was nothing I could ever really share with a guy like Mitch Dylan.
So I waited until he decided this wasn't the time or the place, then I made some joke--I don't know what, it didn't matter--and led him back inside.
I passed the plate of cold cuts to Mitch. Lunch. My first meal of the day. At breakfast I hadn't been able to do more than push food around my plate. After that, I'd kept busy with my guests, hoping the knot in my stomach would wither from lack of attention.
"Would December be too early?" Mitch said as he forked roast beef slices onto his plate.