I don’t reply. To say a single word risks betraying Rockton.
“I know what you have in this town,” he says. “You’re hiding criminals.”
“You have been misinformed.”
He meets my gaze. “I don’t think so.”
“Look at the woman beside you,” I say. “Please tell me, what’s her crime?”
His gaze flicks to Diana. “I have no idea.”
“Mass murder possibly? She does look dangerous. I’d sit further away if I were you.”
The corners of his mouth twitch, and his chin dips, acknowledging my point. Pink tips still linger on Diana’s blond hair. She’s cute in a pixie-girl way. Even her body language says she’s no violent criminal, as she struggles not to flinch.
“Pretend she is ‘hiding’ as you say,” I continue. “Is it not more likely she’s hiding from someone?”
“That’s none of his business,” she says, and she pulls her hands into her sleeves, looking smaller as her gaze drops to her lap.
Ah, Diana. We might have a hellishly complicated relationship, but there are times when I remember why we used to be best friends. She understands what I’m doing, and she comes to my aid, playing the role of abused wife. It helps that she was abused, though, again, that was complicated, as everything is with Diana.
She really is here hiding from a crime: conspiring with her abusive ex to steal a million bucks from her employer. But this guy’s never going to look at her and see a double-crossing schemer.
“Theoretically,” I say, “what if people here were hiding … under our protection.”
“Some might be,” he says. “Maybe even most. I’d suggest, though, that you may have residents who’ve come under false pretenses.”
Buddy, you don’t know the half of it.
“That would make it your word against theirs,” I say. “Maybe you can start by telling me who you are.”
“I’m going to reach into my back pocket and take out my ID.”
I tense. I know what that means. Even the way he says it—warning me that he’s about to reach for something—tells me what he is.
“Left hand,” I say. “If it goes near your holster, I’ll draw.”
“Fair enough.”
He takes out a wallet and passes me a badge. US Marshals Service. The branch of federal police who, among other things, chase down fugitives.
He meets my gaze. “I saw you in the forest. I see the way you’ve handled yourself. The way you handle your gun. The way you’re handling this situation. I believe we’re on the same side.”
“Whatever you’ve heard about our town—”
“I’ve been told my target is here. That’s what matters.” He locks gazes with me. “Nothing else.”
Just give me my fugitive, and let me leave. That’s what he’s saying. He’s also making it clear that he’s not walking away empty-handed, which is a helluva lot bigger problem when he’s holding a badge.
“And your target is?” I say.
“At this point, I’m not prepared to say. We will call my target Pat. I use the male pronoun for simplicity, but do not presume that to mean my target is male.”
I open my mouth to say I obviously need to know who he’s here for, but he continues.
“Pat told someone that he was going away. He apparently wasn’t supposed to say more, but this person is close to him, and he wanted her to know he’d be safe. He said he was going someplace where he was guaranteed safety. Hints from what he said reminded me of something I’d heard. Long story short, I found you. Your settlement.”
“How—”