“Careful, kid,” he said, his voice much harder than before. “You don’t want to step into this.”
I threw my hands up like I was confused. “Step into what? I thought we were just talking.”
“Worst thing you can do is talk,” Keene said, shuffling a little closer. “You know what’s good for you, kid, you better forget you ever heard dear old dad’s voice in the pen.”
“Why’s that? Worried about something? Maybe I should ask Ben Moffitt about it.”
Keene shook his head like I was brain damaged. “Only time I’m warning you, kid. Stay out of it.”
“And if I don’t?”
He took a couple of steps away from me, heading for the exit, the smile creeping back onto his face. “Then things are gonna start blowing up in your face.”
FORTY
Keene had gotten into my head.
As I drove away from the airport, sheets of rain falling across the windshield like a dam in the sky had burst, I was no longer sure of what I needed to do.
I spent the night wrestling with that and awoke the next morning to torrents of rain. I grabbed a jacket for the first time in forever, ignored Miranda snoring on the couch, and headed out into the crap, puddles splashing around me as I drove.
I stopped the Jeep in front of Carolina’s house. Through the rain, I could see a light on in the living room. I turned off the engine, threw open the Jeep door, and dashed up to the front door and knocked. I looked like I’d jumped in the shower with my clothes on.
Carolina opened the door. “Noah? What are you doing out?” She stepped out of the way and motioned for me to come in.
I came into the entryway, water snaking off me onto her floor.
“Hold on,” Carolina said. “I’ll get a towel.”
She came back and handed me a yellow bath towel. I wiped my face. It smelled like the laundry detergent I remembered her using as a kid, but I couldn’t place the name.
I dried off my hair and rubbed the towel over my arms before handing it back to her. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Why are you out in this?”
“I just got back from San Francisco.”
Apprehension trickled onto her face. “Oh.” She pointed toward the sofa. “Sit down.”
“Simington told me a little more this time,” I said, falling onto the couch.
She sat down next to me. “Is that right?” She was trying to mask her anxiety, but it seeped into her words. I couldn’t blame her.
“I know you said before that you only heard from him twice after you told him to get lost,” I said. “Did he ever mention the name Landon Keene?”
She thought hard for a moment, then shook her head. “Not that I recall. Our conversations were brief. The second time was a little longer I guess, but it was because I was reluctant to give him your address.” She shook her head again. “No. He didn’t mention that name. Why?”
I hadn’t decided yet what to tell her about Keene. But it didn’t seem like I had any choice other than to tell her exactly who he was.
“Simington worked for him,” I told her. “And he claims that he killed the two men in El Centro because Keene threatened us.”
“Us?”
“You and me.”
She tilted her head, curious. “I’m not sure I understand.”
I repeated Simington’s story, not getting to the current threats Keene was throwing around.
Carolina shrugged when I finished. “I believe it. The people he hung around with—I’m sure they were capable of making threats like that.” She paused. “And carrying them out.”
“But do you think that would’ve been enough for Simington to carry out the murders?” I asked. “Threats to us?”
She leaned back into the sofa and folded her hands in her lap. “You mean, would he have cared enough about you and me to go to jail?”
I nodded because that was exactly what I was asking. The more I thought about Simington’s story, the more I got hung up on thinking that protecting Carolina and me was enough justification for committing murder. Maybe he’d sent some money. Maybe he’d kept track of us. But I wasn’t certain that meant he cared about our well-being if it meant putting his in jeopardy.
“Honestly, I don’t know,” she said. “I’m inclined to say yes, though. As many bad things as he was, there was some good, too. When he called me the second time, to find out where you lived … he was like the man I met in the bar.”
“Which was?”
“Sincere, kind. Almost apologetic for who he was, like he knew he couldn’t help it.” She looked down at her hands. “I’m not a great judge of character, but I don’t think he was playing me that day.” She looked back to me.
