Envy the Night

“What?” he said, breaking away. “I shouldn’t have done that?”

“No, it’s just”—she was smiling at him—“not really the night for it, you know?”

He was looking at her hard, trying to read her, but she’d turned back to the lake.

“Is he still out there?” she asked.

“Ezra? Yes.”

“I wonder if he was watching that little display.”

“Probably.”

“He must think I’m a slut.”

“I doubt it. But if you want to try to convince him . . .”

She laughed at that and got to her feet, dusted off her pants. He stood up, too, stretched, and tried not to stare at the lake, searching for the boat the way she had.

“Look,” he said, “I’m sorry. If I did anything—”

“It’s fine.” She held her hands up, palms out. “Relax, okay. You didn’t do anything wrong, I just don’t want to let that moment turn into something it shouldn’t.”

“You can trust me,” he said and immediately regretted it. He was coming on too strong, overreacting to her withdrawal. She was right—this wasn’t the night for it. Not at all. But his first thought when she’d pushed him back was that she was scared of him. It had been in his mind earlier, when he brought her to the cabin, and hadn’t left yet. He was not like the rest of these people who had invaded her life, and he had to have her understand that. He was not dangerous.

“I do trust you,” she said, but now the awkwardness between them was evident. “Don’t worry about it. It’s cold, though. So maybe we can go inside?”

She rubbed her upper arms in a false gesture, and he just nodded and walked to the door and held it for her, thinking that there was a reason he was so concerned about whether she was afraid of him, and it came from a place of guilt. Even while he implored her to trust him, while he said he would protect her, he was also asking her to believe in a complete fraud—the idea that his connection to all of this was circumstantial, an extraordinary coincidence. It had been easier to ask her to believe that than to tell her that he’d come here to kill someone. What would she do if he told her that? What sort of response would that little disclosure provoke?

They drank another beer but kept their distance. She sat on the couch, and he took the chair beside it. They spoke in soft voices for about an hour, and the conversation slowed and vanished, and after a while he realized she was asleep. He repositioned her on the couch, got a pillow under her head and a blanket over her body, then sat beside her and willed sleep to stay at bay. Wasn’t fair to make Ezra do all the watching.

He thought about his cell phone at some point as he sat there in the dark, got quietly to his feet, and went to find it. He’d turned it off after going into the police station, and now he turned it back on, heard a chime indicating a message was waiting. The sound seemed loud in the quiet house, and he looked over at Nora. She didn’t move, and her breathing stayed slow and deep. He played the message.

Grady Morgan. The sound of Grady’s voice hit him as hard as Ezra’s had a few days earlier, maybe even harder. Frank scarcely took in the content of the message at first, just that voice. There was a tension to it, maybe even some anger.

Grady had heard about the day’s events, of course. Frank should have expected that. As soon as Atkins showed up, he should have expected that Grady would get a call. If he’d been thinking, he would have preempted Atkins, explained things and given Grady some warning. Now Grady had heard only Atkins’s side of things, and he was worried.

Frank looked at the clock, saw it was nearly one. Late for a call, but Grady’s tone had some urgency. He probably wouldn’t mind.

After one more check to ensure that Nora was sleeping soundly, Frank slipped out the door and into the night to make the call.

Grady had been asleep for about an hour when the phone rang. He turned onto his elbow, reached out and grabbed the receiver, mumbled a hello that was thick with sleep.

“It’s Frank.”

Grady said, “What the hell kind of trouble did you get into?”

“Atkins didn’t tell you?”

“I’ve heard what he said. Now I’m asking you.”

“Can’t tell you anything different except that these guys are involved with Devin. That much seems clear.”

“Frank . . .” He wanted to ask the question, had to ask it, but it didn’t leave his lips.

“What?”

“Here’s how I’m going to phrase it. And, damn it, you tell me the truth. Were you down in Miami when it got started?”

Say no, say no, say no. Don’t make this my fault, Frank, don’t tell me that a man is dead and you’re going to prison because of the lies I told so many years ago . . .

“Grady, I haven’t been to Miami since my dad took me down eight years ago. I don’t intend to head that way, either.”

Grady moved the phone away from his mouth so Frank couldn’t hear that exhalation of pure relief. It didn’t sound like Frank was lying. He’d been nowhere near Miami, had not put those bullets into Devin Matteson.

Grady said, “So you’re telling me that—”

“What happened in Miami? You seem to know a lot more than I do.”

“Devin Matteson was shot.”

Silence filled the line. Grady’s eyes were adjusting to the dark, turning shadows into furniture around the room. He sat and waited.

“Just shot,” Frank said at last, “or killed?”

“Shot. Three times in the back. But he didn’t die.”

“Of course not,” Frank said. “Wouldn’t be that easy.”

“Listen . . . are you telling me the truth? You really have nothing to do with Matteson?”

“I do not.”

“Then why are you up there?”

“You still want the truth? Because I heard he was headed this way.”

“Who told you that?”

“Ezra Ballard.”

“Well, I wish you hadn’t gone up there,” Grady said. “You should have called me. Now look at what it’s turning into. Stay away from Ballard, and stay away from whatever ideas he’s got.”

“Who said he’s got any? But I don’t want to argue with you. Tell me what you know about Devin. Who took him out?”

Grady sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Nobody knows. But his wife went MIA the same night he got popped, so that’s taking the focus.”

“You mean she might have done it?”

“That, or she bolted with whoever did.”

“His wife disappeared.” Frank’s voice seemed to have tightened.

“Yes.”

“You got a description of her? Know anything about her?”

Grady paused. “Why are you asking?”

“You surprised to hear I’m interested in whoever shot Devin?”

Grady didn’t like that answer. He’d spent enough time talking to Frank to recognize when he was being evasive.

“Agent Atkins was telling me about the guy you got tangled up with,” he said. “Vaughn.”

“Is that his name?” Frank said, but it sounded false.

“Yeah, it’s his name.”

“Told us his name was Dave. That’s about all I can offer. That, and he’s a nervous little prick. Jumpy. Doesn’t