She was still holding his hand. Their eyes didn’t let go of each other, until her lips broke into a faraway smile and she stared at the ground.
“What about you?” he asked. “How are you?”
“I’m not so good, either,” she confessed.
“Because of Cutter?”
“Yes. And other things.”
“Like what?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Just things.”
“Have you talked to anyone about what you went through on the pier?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because the only one who can understand is you.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. He only knew all the things he wanted to say to her. Those were the things he couldn’t say.
In front of them, the patio door opened.
“Well, your kitchen is as good as new,” Duane called out. “You have enough leftovers to last you through Christmas, bro. I also took the liberty of throwing out some things that should not be consumed by people or cats.”
Frost smiled at him. “Thanks.”
“Come on, Tabs, we need to rock and roll,” Duane said. “You may be on sick leave, but the food truck and me, we have work to do.”
Tabby squeezed Frost’s hand and then let go. She walked away without looking at him. Frost and Duane went back inside the house, and Tabby was already gone, leaving the front door open, by the time they reached the foyer. Duane, who was just like their father, grabbed Frost by both shoulders. His effervescence radiated from him every hour of the day. That was just one of the things he loved about his brother.
“You know, somewhere Katie is pretty effing proud of you right now,” Duane said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And so am I.”
“Thanks, Duane,” Frost told him.
His brother saluted. He gave Shack a salute, too. The cat was on the white tile of the foyer beside Frost. Duane looked down and chuckled as he walked across Herb’s Lion King painting, and he gave them a backward wave. “Hakuna matata, bro!”
Frost waited until Duane disappeared, and then he closed the door. He was tired. The house felt lonely and silent. He stood in the darkness for a moment before he turned away. Shack scooted to the kitchen to see if Duane had left anything on a plate for him, which he probably had. Frost was almost back outside to the patio when he heard a soft rapping on the front door behind him.
Surprised, he returned to the foyer and pulled the door open. Tabby stood on the porch, in the pool of the brass light.
“Duane’s in the car,” she said.
“Okay.”
“I said I forgot something.”
He stared at her. “Okay.”
“I need to ask you something,” she said, “and I need you to be honest with me.”
Somewhere in his chest, his heart began to beat again. It had been stopped for years. “What is it?”
She had the look of someone standing at a rope bridge, trying to decide if it was safe to cross. He could have told her that those bridges were always dangerous.
“Do you and I have a big problem, Frost?” Tabby asked.
He realized that he was conscious of every detail about her as she stood in front of him. He could have told her how many strands of red hair had fallen across her face. He could have told her that he hadn’t stopped seeing her green eyes since he met her. He could have told her that her lips, still slightly parted with the question they’d asked, made him think of nothing but kissing her.
He didn’t want to lie. She’d told him to be honest. But lying was the only choice.
“No,” he said. “No problem at all.”
Tabby didn’t ask if he was sure. She didn’t say whether she believed him. She bit her lip, then simply turned away and practically ran down the steps away from him. He tried to guess what she was feeling now. Part of him hoped it was disappointment, but it was probably relief. Nothing else was safe.
Frost closed the door again. He closed his eyes, too, as the weight of irony landed on his head.
For the first time in his life, he knew who his Jane Doe was.
Damn.
Acknowledgments
The first draft of a new novel may be a solitary endeavor for a writer, but after that, the process is a team effort involving many talented people. This book wouldn’t be in your hands without some amazing editors, designers, marketers, and publicists.
I am fortunate to work with one of the best teams in publishing, namely, the people at Thomas & Mercer. Jessica Tribble worked with me on this book from the initial concept all the way through the editorial work and the entire production effort. Charlotte Herscher was invaluable in offering editorial guidance, just as she did on the first Frost Easton book, The Night Bird. Laura Petrella did another awesome job as copyeditor; she never misses a thing. I’m grateful to them and to everyone at T&M for their hard work and expertise — and for making me feel like a part of their publishing family.
Before a book even goes to the publisher, I get intensive feedback from my wife, Marcia, and my writing and editorial colleague Ann Sullivan. And by “intensive feedback,” I mean they tell me in loving, generous detail everything I’ve done wrong. For which I’m thankful. Really. This book would not be what it is today without their superb insights.
My agent in New York, Deborah Schneider, makes all of this possible. She and I have been working together for fourteen years now, through all the many changes in this business. She is an extraordinary ally and advocate.
One last note. Many readers know from meeting us and interacting with us online that Marcia and I have a unique partnership in approaching the writer’s life. She’s part of everything I do, and I truly couldn’t do any of it without her. That’s why every book begins with the same two words: For Marcia.