Page 22 of Carry on Wayward Son

“From one coast clear to the other.” He turned his water glass in a slow circle on the table. “How’d you get into this kind of work? It’s not the kind of thing anybody goes into if they haven’t lost somebody.”

It was a reasonable question, and I’d answered it enough times to have worn the answer smooth. I reached for the version that was true and careful in equal measure, the one I could deliver without hesitation and without giving anything away.

“A close friend of mine was trafficked years ago. She died. I got into this work as a way to keep her memory alive and, hopefully, help other people avoid the same fate.”

Jace was quiet for a moment. Outside, a boat blasted its horn. At the bar, somebody laughed at something.

“That’s noble,” he said.

“It’s essential.” The distinction mattered to me and always had, though I didn’t usually bother to say it out loud.

He nodded, as if he understood the difference and didn’t need it explained.

The food arrived. My burger was thick and juicy, piled with cheese and bacon, and the basket of hush puppies was golden and perfect. I snagged one, heedless of the heat, and dunked it in the ooey gooey melted cheese in the plastic ramekin. Jace watched me do this with an expression I couldn’t quite place.

I bit into the hush puppy, humming in pleasure as the salty, sweet crunch blended with the spicy cheese dip. Such a weird and delicious combination.

Jace hadn’t moved from his slouch against the back of the booth, though his fish and chips were steaming. “So,” he said conversationally. “How does a woman from Orcas Island know about the off-menu appetizer at a hole in the wall on the other side of the country?”

Eleven

JACE

Layla didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Didn’t do any of the things people did when a question landed close to something they were protecting.

“I never said I hadn’t been to Hatterwick before.”

I turned that over. “Seems like something you might’ve mentioned.”

“No one asked, and it wasn’t relevant to my briefing on the case.” She picked up her burger with both hands. “Unless you’re implying that my failure to divulge past family vacation history is suspicious and somehow makes me unqualified to assist with this investigation.”

Put like that, I felt like an ass. Which didn’t change the fact that something about her kept snagging for me. Not in the way that pinged my instinct for danger or made the back of my neck prickle. More like the sensation of a puzzle where one piece kept not quite fitting no matter which way you turned it. I was reasonably certain she wasn’t lying. But she wasn’t giving me the whole picture, and those two things could coexist just fine.

She also didn’t owe me her picture. We’d known each other for less than forty-eight hours.

I lifted a hand in apology. “Sorry. Naturally suspicious human.”

She looked at me over the burger. “Is that temperament or training?”

“Some of both.”

She set the burger down and reached for a hushpuppy. I watched her hands as she did it, looking for the fidget or the shifting of feet beneath the table—all the micro-expressions that revealed what someone’s face was too careful not to. Nothing. Her stillness wasn’t forced, just habitual. The scars on both hands caught the bar light again, pale against her skin, disappearing under the jacket sleeves where the ink began. Old scars. Whatever they were from, it hadn’t been recent.

“And what does that suspicion make of me?” I heard genuine curiosity in her tone rather than offense, as if she actually wanted the answer.

“It had me looking into your work last night. The photography.” I picked up a fry. “It takes a hell of a lot of skill to make art out of what isn’t there.”

Something flickered across her face, there and gone in an instant. “It’s not meant to be art.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that it is. You have a serious eye.”

“Those people deserve to be remembered.” She said it without heat, just conviction. “The podcast bringing attention to cold cases is one way. My photographs are another. It’s not something I’m interested in profiting off of.”

“How do you make a living, then?” The moment the words left my mouth, I realized how they sounded and lifted a hand. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m just curious.”

She considered for a moment, apparently deciding it wasn’t a dangerous question. “I’m on retainer for the podcast. I do other freelance photojournalism on the side. And I’ve got an evergreen situation with stock photography and the occasional custom shoot.”

“That’s a reasonable ecosystem.”