shook her head. “I’m a city girl.”
He looked back at the road. “Here’s how it works in small towns. On our way to the house, we’ll stop for dinner at the local café. Not sure of the name of it any longer but for as long as I was in Ravesville, there was always a café on the corner of Main Street and Highway 20. I’m sure it’s still there. I’ll casually mention my name and that I’m back in town to take care of the old house and that I’ve brought along my new wife. By the time we get to dessert, the story will have reached half the community and by morning, the other half will have heard.”
“Fascinating,” she said.
“Not really, just the way it is. After that, Lorraine, I hope that you’ll spend most of your time at the house, where it will be easier to provide protection.”
“Raney,” she said. “I go by Raney. Not Lorraine.”
He seemed to consider that. “What did Harry Malone know you as?”
“He called me Lorraine. That was what was on my name tag. And because he was only at Next Steps a couple times before...well, before, he probably didn’t hear anybody refer to me differently.”
There was a significant pause and she could hear the tires on the rough highway. Finally, he turned to her and said, “Raney it is.”
She was relieved that he hadn’t pushed for more details. Even though she’d told the story several times, it still made her sick to talk about her time with Harry Malone. Pushing that image aside, she closed her eyes and focused on the way her name had sounded on his lips. Raney.
As if he knew her. Which of course he didn’t. No more than she knew him. This was simply his job.
And given that somebody had tried twice to kill her, she sure as hell hoped he was good at it. He’d sounded confident when he’d said he could keep her safe. “So how long have you been on the job?” she asked.
He glanced her way, surprise in his eyes. “You know a lot of cops?”
She shrugged. “A few. Why?”
“Because when most people ask that question, they ask, ‘How long have you been a police officer?’ It’s a subtle difference but one that a cop notices.”
She waited. She wasn’t ready yet to tell him about her work at Next Steps, about some of the people whom she’d helped, some of the people who had needed a hand. She’d virtually stooped, cupped her hands and given them a foothold. She was proud of her work, knew the impact she’d had.
“I’ve been a cop for thirteen years,” he said. “Covered a beat for eight of those before I became a detective. I mostly work homicides.”
“But you’ve done witness protection work before?” she asked.
“I have. I know what I’m doing,” he said. She could tell that she’d offended him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that...”
“I know,” he said, his tone gentler.
“So you live in St. Louis?”
“Yes.”
They drove a few more miles. The silence in the SUV was oppressive. “In a house?” Lately she’d had houses on the brain.
He shook his head. “A thirty-year mortgage isn’t my style,” he said. “I’ve got a six-month lease on an apartment in the Central West End.”
“What happens after six months?”
He shrugged. “I sign another lease. Or I don’t.”
“How long have you lived there?”
“Five years.”
That was weird. He’d been on the job for thirteen years and lived in the same apartment for five years but he was still only interested in a six-month lease. Maybe that was how things were done in the Central West End.
She had no idea where that was but assumed it was likely sort of upscale, like Chase. He wore a nice watch, good leather shoes, had nice manners and he’d looked very comfortable in a tux.
“I’ve been saving for a house,” she admitted. “I love my apartment building and my neighbors but lately, I’ve been thinking that it’s time for me to get a house. But now...I’m not sure. Maybe the security of having neighbors close by is what I need.”
He took his eyes off the road in order to look at her again. “You’ve had a tough couple of months. Don’t make any big decisions right now. Sit back, consider, then act when you’re ready.”
Others had given her the same advice, although not in those exact words. She let out the breath she’d been holding. Maybe in Ravesville, she could do that. Just relax.
She felt the ever-present knot in her stomach release just a little. Now the quiet was no longer oppressive. It felt safe. Nice. She closed her eyes and didn’t open them again until she felt someone lightly shaking her shoulder.
“We’re here,” he said.
She was surprised to see that it was getting dark. She looked at the clock on the dash. Twenty minutes after six. Her stomach rumbled and she pressed the palm of her hand against it.
“I imagine you’re hungry,” he said.
She’d had toast for breakfast, nothing for lunch and a bite of cake that he’d popped into her mouth. “Yes,” she said, turning her neck slowly to get the kinks out. “So this is it?”
It was a wide street, lined with freshly painted perpendicular parking spaces. The buildings were mostly old, lots of red brick, nothing over three stories. There were a few flower boxes with brightly colored mums below the windows and some more pots scattered down the sidewalk. There was an empty bike rack at the end of the block.
He’d been right about the restaurant. The Wright Here, Wright Now Café had its lights on and there were a few cars parked in front of the two-story brick building. Other than that, the only other cars were three or four gathered together at the end of the next block. “What’s down there?” she asked, pointing. “Besides the edge of town?”
“A bar. Everything else closes up tight in the evenings.”
She’d grown up in Manhattan and moved to Miami when she was sixteen, after her mom got a new job as the general counsel for an insurance company. Her dad had been a writer and had worked from home. They’d been killed by a drunk driver four years later. She’d stayed in Florida, hadn’t really had anyplace else to go. While not Manhattan, Miami was still a large city where they didn’t roll up the streets at half past six.
“I hope the food is good,” she said, almost under her breath.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” he said. “But we need to eat. I’m not confident that there will be anything at the house.”
They got out of the car. When Chase crossed in front of the hood, she thought she saw just a hint of a limp. She hadn’t noticed it before. “Did you hurt your leg?” she asked.
He waved it off. “Stiff from driving,” he said.
“So how did your stepfather die?” she asked as they walked down the sidewalk toward the restaurant.
“Car accident.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Was it a big funeral?”
He didn’t answer. But he did hold the door open for her. She walked into the restaurant. It was brightly lit. There were three tables with customers. On the nine other available tables, there were tan paper placemats and silverware wrapped in white paper napkins.
A woman, maybe midthirties, with gorgeous long red hair to her waist pulled back into a low ponytail, walked through the swinging door at the rear of the restaurant. She carried plates in both hands.