it. It was the unofficial hangout of the force, with good food that was fairly cheap, as long as you didn’t mind Dinah listening over your shoulder as calls came in over the radio. I was halfway through a plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes when I got the call from dispatch with word of a car accident on Route 10. No injuries, but the car was undriveable, from the sound of things, and the guy needed someone to come and pick him up.
I sighed and put my fork down. I was the only person in the diner tonight other than Dinah and her husband Troy, who doubled as the line cook. It was just seven thirty, but with this weather, nobody else was dumb enough to be out and about. As Edgewood’s officer on call until tomorrow morning, it meant that this and whatever any other unlucky soul or drunk dumbass decided to do in the next twelve hours was all on me. Dinah, a plump redhead in her sixties wearing a handmade gingham apron over her Metallica T-shirt and jeans, patted me on the hand before pointedly filling my travel mug with coffee.
So much for catching up on my reading.
“What’s the name of the guy I’m off to rescue?” I asked over my radio as I set a twenty down on the table. Dinah scowled at me, but I put my plate on top of it and resolutely didn’t let her pull it out and bring me half of it back as change.
“Uh, hang on…looks like a Mr. Max Robertson.”
I’d just taken a sip of my fresh hot coffee, and hearing that name promptly sent it down the wrong tube. I coughed, trying not to swallow my tongue as I came to grips with what I was hearing. Max Robertson? Back in Edgewood? Or, you know, on the road five minutes outside of it. Shit, I hadn’t thought about him in…
Days, at least. It had been days. It wasn’t reasonable to think about your first crush any more often than that, and I was a reasonable guy.
Calm down. It might not even be the same Max Robertson. There were probably hundreds of them. Thousands.
Yeah, but how many of those thousands would bother heading here?
“Max Robertson?” Dinah put one hand on her hip as she frowned thoughtfully at the snow. “You think she means Maxfield Robertson? Max Senior’s boy?”
“Maybe,” I said, trying for noncommittal. Judging from the look on her face, I hadn’t quite managed it.
“Wasn’t he best friends with your brother?”
“He still is, as far as I know.” I got up from the booth and grabbed my thick, puffy down jacket. “Hal and the girls go to visit him in the city once a year or so.”
“Has he been back to visit before this?”
“I don’t know.” My brother had never mentioned anything about Max coming here. But I’d only been back in town myself for about six months, and four months of that had been absolute chaos after Ariel left.
“Huh.” She looked at me. “You should bring him by for some supper.”
Oh boy. “I’m sure he’s got somewhere to be, Dinah. Probably Hal’s.”
She rolled her eyes. “Like Hal’ll have anything edible going at home. Face it, honey, your brother cooks from boxes. I’ll make enough for the boy to take with him. On the house, of course.”
“Dinah—”
“It’ll just take five minutes.”
I sighed. There was no gainsaying Dinah sometimes, especially when her ultimatums involved food. “I’ll see what he wants. He might not be hungry.”
“If it’s Max Jr., I know he’ll be hungry for my cooking.” She shooed me out the door, the bell clinging merrily as I walked out into the snow. Christ, it was coming down hard.
I blew once on my hands then grabbed my gloves as I headed for my Jeep. After graduating from the police academy, once I was hired by Edgewood PD, they’d asked if I minded using my own car as my police vehicle. It was a small department, and vehicles that could get around in any weather were hard to afford. I didn’t mind, anything to help me pay it off faster, but I surreptitiously checked it for dirty napkins or drink containers before I left the diner parking lot.
I had to stop panicking.
It might not be the same guy.
…
I clung to that thought as I drove down Route 10, keeping my eyes open for any sign of the car accident. After what had happened with Max—with his dad, more specifically—I don’t