Revolver Road - Christi Daugherty Page 0,110

get moving.”

He crossed the room, his shoes silent against the linoleum, and paused in the doorway.

“By the way, what are you going to do about the car?”

Harper hadn’t had a chance to think about that yet. The Camaro was totaled.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I guess, get a new one? Somehow. With no money.”

“I might be able to help,” he said. “Give me a call when you’re out of here. I’ll hook you up.”

It was so Luke. I love you. Let’s get you a safe car.

When he was gone, the nurse came over with the pills and a cup of water and glanced at the empty doorway.

“Now that’s a good-looking detective,” she observed.

Harper smiled as she took the cup from her. “Yes, he is.”

THREE MONTHS LATER

Bonnie walked out onto the porch holding two glasses of wine. She pushed the door shut with her foot and crossed to where Harper sat. “I really like this place,” she said, holding out a glass. “Once you’re settled you’re going to love it. I can tell.”

Harper looked around doubtfully and took a sip of wine. “I guess I’ll get used to it.”

“You will.” Bonnie sat down across from her. “It’s so great seeing your stuff out of storage again. Though why you had to move on the first hundred-degree day of the year…” She leaned back in the chair, propping up her feet. “Still, it’s worth all that sweat for this.”

The night air was velvet soft, perfumed with the scent of the honeysuckle that tumbled over the fence from the garden next door.

“It’s probably just a relief to have me out of your house,” Harper said, giving her a look.

“Never. I loved having a housemate.” Bonnie relaxed back against the high seat back. “It’s too quiet without you there. I might get a dog.”

Harper snorted. “I love that I can be replaced by a poodle.”

“Not a poodle,” Bonnie said. “A German shepherd.”

Sipping the cold wine, Harper looked at her new home. Made of a pale, rose-colored stone, the building on Huntingdon Street was hulking and sturdy, with a high peaked roof and a fanciful curved front porch. Inside, the apartment was big, with original wood floors that showed their age, and windows big enough to step through without bending.

It wasn’t a bad place to end up. It felt good. It felt safe.

A stack of flattened boxes lay at the foot of the front steps, waiting to be taken to the recycling center. Her new car was parked a few feet away. Like the house, the black Dodge Charger still felt strange to her. Luke had, as he’d promised, helped her find it. It had been seized from a drug dealer and sold by the police at a steep discount. She’d paid for it with the car insurance money.

She and Luke were still figuring things out. As he’d promised, he’d broken up with Sarah. But nobody on the police force could know that the two of them had resumed seeing each other. It had to be secret. Possibly forever. And she had no idea how that would work.

Right now, though, her heart leaped every time he called at midnight to see if she was coming to his place. She loved the novelty of waking up next to him.

For the moment, that was enough.

“I can’t believe we got everything unpacked in one day.” Bonnie stretched her tanned legs, propping her feet up on the stone bannister a few feet from where Zuzu sat hunched, studying her new kingdom with open suspicion. “Billy was so nice. My landlord wouldn’t pick up a box to help me if my life depended on it.”

“Billy’s one of a kind.” Glancing at her, Harper said, “Hey, thanks for all the free labor.” She held up her glass. “I hope we don’t have to do that again for a very long time.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Bonnie said.

Harper massaged her left shoulder gingerly. It ached a little—carrying boxes was the biggest workout she’d given it since the cast came off.

“How are things at the paper?” Bonnie inquired, setting her glass down. “Is everyone settling down since the layoffs?”

It had been a tough couple of months at the Daily News. Seven writers had been laid off, along with sportswriters and people in the advertising office. The newsroom felt increasingly hollow. But those who remained—eight news reporters, two lifestyle writers, and five sportswriters—were forming a tight group. One writer had been promoted to junior editor, meaning Baxter no longer had to work fourteen-hour days. It also meant she wasn’t there every night. But Harper was getting used to that.

DJ had been given a split beat, writing about the courts and helping Harper cover the police.

“Baxter did the best she could with a bad situation,” Harper said. “DJ’s happy as a clam, charming all the lawyers. Winning over the cops.”

“What about you?” Bonnie asked. “Are you sleeping better?”

Harper hesitated. She still had nightmares of bright headlights, and the shriek of metal. But things had been getting better since the district attorney decided not to file charges against her. Some nights she slept dreamlessly.

She and her father had spoken only once since the night she killed Dowell. A stiff, uncomfortable conversation that felt like good-bye. Maybe she was ready to move on from her childhood. Ready, at last, to let go of the demons that had haunted her all her life.

“I’m a little better,” she said. “But, you know. Baby steps.”

Bonnie watched her, a tiny crease forming between her eyes. “This is a strange question but, do you ever think about doing anything else? I mean, you’ve been shot. You’ve been stalked. Doesn’t the violence wear you down?”

Harper looked down the dark street. Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed, and her heart quickened in response, as if she were intrinsically connected to that sound. As if it were in her blood.

After all these years, maybe it was.

“This is my job,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll ever do anything else.” She smiled, lifting her glass. “Anyway. Someone’s got to do it.”