Chapter Three
Devyn
Iswallow hard.
I can see in his eyes he’s lonely, but the request, no, the order, was the last thing I expected him to say after the hissy fit he threw when he saw I hadn’t driven into town. I should have. I really should have. I should have checked into a motel the second I drove past Old Harbor’s city limits and approached Rick tomorrow morning, but I wanted to get it over with, get his refusal out in the open and figure out where to go from there because I knew he was going to say no. I’d been a good reporter, hell, I’m still a fantastic reporter, but I knew I couldn’t convince him to talk.
There’s a reason he’s a recluse, and it doesn’t all have to do with his injuries.
Even with Walt checking on her, I can’t leave Talia alone for too long. She’s on a slippery slope and unsupervised time could land her in a world of trouble.
“I can give you a few days.”
Rick scoffs. “Then you better hope it’s enough.”
“I have a life, you know. People I care about who need me.”
“Then consider yourself lucky. You done? I’ll show you the bedroom. Yours, not mine.” He pulls his hand away from my throat, leaving my skin cold where his fingers lingered. “You don’t have to worry about me like that. I’m not interested if it’s not given freely.”
Standing from the bench, I say, “That hasn’t been lately.”
He glares, and I want to laugh. Maybe I’m just tired, my wires strung too tightly, but I don’t think Rickard Mercer is a bad guy. He didn’t leave me outside to freeze to death or force me to try to drive into town. He knew I wouldn’t have made it, but it would have been his right to wash his hands of me.
“What do you know about it?” He disappears into the foyer for one second and comes out of the tiny entryway carrying my suitcase.
I know plenty about it. When his wife left him, it was all anyone could talk about. It’s obvious he’s not over her, and for once I keep my mouth shut. Slow learner. That’s me. “Nothing.”
“I didn’t think so.”
Rick jerks his head, and I follow him out of the spacious kitchen. I’ve never been inside a lighthouse before, functional or otherwise, and I look around with interest. It feels like a normal house, and it looks like a normal house. Paintings on the walls, cozy furniture, rugs scattered over the hardwood floors. The bathroom I used when he first invited me in holds a gloriously large clawfoot tub, and I bet because of his injuries, he soaks a lot. I would too, if I could in a tub like that.
I follow him up a short flight of exposed concrete stairs, and at the landing, he opens a wooden door. “This is the second floor. There’s not a bathroom up here, and I don’t have a nightlight. It can get pretty dark without windows. If you have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, use your phone’s flashlight. Ambulances have a tough time getting up the road in the snow, and in a blizzard like this, there’s a good chance you’d die while you wait.”
“Okay.”
The second floor’s walls are lined with books. More books than I have ever seen in my life, and Cedar Hill’s public library is enormous. I hadn’t thought of what I would do to pass the time while I waited for Rick to speak to me, and now I don’t have to. I can read my days away. I brought my laptop hoping to crank out the interview and email it to Walt as soon as I had it, but social media never interested me, and I’ll be happier reading through everything Rick has on his shelves. “Who’s your favorite author?” I ask curiously.
“I have too many to name just one.” He opens another door revealing another set of stairs. “These go up to the top. Please keep this door closed. I’m not paying to heat the whole neighborhood.”
I peer over his arm, cold, dank air meeting my nose, but it’s too dark to see anything. “Can I go up? How many steps are there?”
“Two-hundred and sixty-five. You can go up, but I would prefer it if I went with you the first time.” He meets my eyes as he shuts the door. “Please.”
“Okay.”
He drops my suitcase in front of a door but keeps walking and flips on a light switch. Pale light glows from runners mounted along the ceiling. Two large couches sit against two walls, and a coffee table is positioned in front of one. Shelves hold more books, some knickknacks, and framed photos of people I can’t identify from this far away. No plants. “This is a sitting room of sorts. When I remodeled, I wanted a different place to read besides my bedroom. I don’t have a TV. The internet is usually strong enough if you want to stream something. I assume since you’re a reporter you have a laptop with you.”
“Yes, I do.”
“That will have to be enough if the internet holds out during the storm. I lost my taste for TV when the local news couldn’t stop talking about me.”
“I know how that is.” I lost my taste for TV too, when the local news couldn’t stop talking about me pointing my finger at Stevie Johansson. I’d become a laughingstock just as quickly as Rick telling the press to fuck off. I wish I’d had the balls to do the same. If I had, I wouldn’t be working at the Pioneer, I can tell you that.
“This is your room. The sheets are clean. I hadn’t wanted to add a bedroom, but the interior decorator said I would regret it if I didn’t. Don’t know what for, maybe she thought I’d have kids or something someday, but so far, you’re the first guest and likely the last. The lamp by the bed works. Power comes from a co-op, and I have a generator if it goes out.”
He steps around my suitcase, pushes the door open, and reveals a plain bedroom. A queen-sized bed sits against one wall, and a dresser and bookshelf are positioned opposite pushed against the white brick. It wasn’t decorated with gender in mind, the down comforter a plain white. I hope I don’t get my period while I’m sleeping here. I’d never be able to keep something that pristine for long.
“There’s a lock on the door,” he continues. “You won’t hurt my feelings if you use it.”