The Inn - James Patterson Page 0,32

“I’m actually here about you. Some quack at Addison Gilbert called in a disturbance in the parking lot, gave us your license plate.”

“Tell me this fool ain’t the local sheriff.” The big goon with the knuckle tats eyed Clay. “I knew cops liked chillin’ in doughnut shops, but this guy looks like he owns the chain.”

The punks around us snickered. Clay smoothed the front of his shirt and swallowed hard as he took in the sight of the crushed Escalade windshield. “Is there some kind of trouble here? Can I offer assistance?”

“You cool, you cool,” one of the girls said. “We ain’t got no leftovers to get rid of.”

The whole crew laughed, but not Cline, who wasn’t paying much attention to Clay at all. His eyes followed me as I walked Clay back to his car. The sheriff was blushing at the collar of his shirt, sweat spotting his sides.

“Ignore those idiots,” I told him. “What’s Marn doing in the back of your car? Is she in trouble?”

“No, no.” Clay wiped his brow. “I got a call about a kid walking the train tracks. She told me she was just taking a shortcut home.”

I asked Nick to take my car back to the Inn, said I’d ride in the squad car with Marni. Cline watched us roll out, one corner of his mouth turned down regretfully, like he’d been enjoying the banter and wanted to toy with us a little more. I hoped he got what I tried to communicate as I climbed into the back of Clay’s car: I was not done with him yet.

Marni watched the people at the house through the back window as we turned for home.

“Squid again,” she said. “Does he live there? Wow. He’s done pretty good for a kid who couldn’t turn up to school on time even once in his whole life.”

“He’s not done well at all, if you ask me,” I said. “And I’d like it if you didn’t go anywhere near the people at that house, Marn.”

“Whatever.” She folded her arms.

“I know, I know.” I put my hands up. “You don’t want lectures. But this is serious. They’re bad news. Your friend Squid is tied up with some very dangerous people and I don’t want you doing the same.”

Marni chewed her nails, shrugged.

“Why didn’t you go to work today?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m just bored with that place.”

“I’m not surprised.” I imitated her lazy face from the day before. “‘Thin crust. No anchovies. Double cheese.’” She grinned.

“You’re better than that and you know it,” I said. “But if you’re going to quit, you should quit right. Line something better up first. Give them notice.”

“I guess.” She looked out the window, watched the world go by. “I’m supposed to have a shift tonight too.”

“Call them when you get home and tell them you’re sick,” I said. “Take the night off. We’ll have a nice dinner and then you and me will sit and make a plan for what you’re going to do.”

“I wouldn’t know what else to do.” Marni sighed. “Wherever I go, it’ll be the same sort of thing. Make pizzas at Dough Brothers. Sell stamps at the post office. Gut fish on the docks. What’s the difference?”

“Marni, that is not your future,” I said. “I’m telling you. You’re smart, funny, and tough. Better things are waiting for you. You can’t see them, but I can.”

“Things like what?”

“Like music,” I said. “You’ve got talent, Marn. Go ahead. Roll your eyes. But you’ve got something there, something special. You tell great stories, and you kick ass on the violin. You know what that sounds like to me? That sounds like a born musician. Someone who plays and writes music for adoring crowds. Who tells interviewers that she dropped out of high school and worked in a crappy pizza joint before she made it big.”

She looked at me, and I knew she was wondering if I could be right. I tried to look as confident as I could. But she knew, and I knew, that I hadn’t done well predicting my own future over the past couple of years. Siobhan was the plan maker, not me. But even as I sat doubting myself, a smile grew on Marni’s face, and I felt for a moment that I had done my job.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

WHEN WE ARRIVED home, Clay followed me to the front of the house, his head down and his shoulders high, as if he expected to be hit.

“I’ve got