Gretchen marked her place with her finger and met his eyes again; this time, her gaze was more searching.
“You’re nervous about something. Because your wolf’s freaking out? Because you’re starstruck about meeting your favorite photographer? Which is still cute, by the way.”
Colby didn’t have an answer for her. Either of those reasons would have made sense, and both of them were more or less true. But there was something else, too. He had that feeling he sometimes got buying a lottery ticket, like fate was converging in on him and he was one scratch away from being a millionaire.
Only the most I’ve ever won is ten dollars, he reminded himself. I’m reading too much into things.
“All of the above,” he said. “You’re right, I’m stalling. I need to get on the road.”
About time, his wolf grumbled.
All in all, though, the mutt had put up with his waffling and delaying longer than Colby would have thought. Maybe it had the same weird case of nerves he did.
At least it was a short drive to the police station. That let him feel like he was making up for lost time.
Wilson Wynette met him at the door and arched one eyebrow at what Colby was carrying. “I always knew you were immature, Acton, but what’s with the toys?”
“I thought the kid might like them.”
Wilson’s eyebrow only went up higher.
“How do you do just the one eyebrow?” Colby said. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”
“A wise man never gives away his secrets. And if you’re playing Santa to some kid you’ve never met, I’m going to go ahead and assume you took a look at incredible photographer Aria Clarke’s author pic.”
“No, actually. I’m in love with her mind. And I’m a decent guy who can do something nice for reasons outside of getting a date, unlike some people.”
“Hey!” Wilson protested. “Stan and I have been together for six months now.”
Colby shrugged. “That only disproves my point if you’ve been nice to people besides your boyfriend.”
“I’m about to be nice to you. Because I can let you know that Aria Clarke is single, for the record, and you can thank my top-notch investigative skills for finding that out for you.”
He winked and then effortlessly segued into pure business:
“The Clarkes are all in the second least crappy break room, the one with the broken vending machine. You remember where that is?”
He did. “Why is it you guys collect money for the Policeman’s Ball but not for sprucing this place up a little? Even your plastic plants are dying.”
“Those decisions get made way above my head,” Wilson said. “And way above the head of anyone who actually has to park their ass here during the day. Unfortunately.” He clapped Colby on the shoulder. “Go forth, nerd boy, and get your autograph and your fugitive.”
Colby went forth.
The second least crappy break room was down a hallway with an eternally flickering light. Creepy enough, Colby thought, even for people who weren’t already unsettled. He opened the door.
Two adults and one little girl sat around a chipped table in the center of the room. At first glance, Colby guessed this was the little Clarke girl and her grandparents—an extremely elegant-looking woman with swept-back hair and regal features and a big, broad-shouldered man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a hunter-green plaid shirt.
The man reminded Colby immediately of his own dad—he had the same air of straightforward steadiness—and it made him feel another old pang of grief.
The little girl was cute as a button. Her complexion was a slightly lighter shade of brown than her grandparents’, but she had her grandmother’s strong chin and her grandfather’s curls. A slightly crushed flower crown was tangled in her hair.
Protect, Colby’s wolf said.
I will.
He smiled. “Hi, I’m Colby Acton. I’m with the US Marshals. Detective Wynette probably told you I was coming over.”
“He did.” The man stood up and held out his hand. “Ben Clarke.”