Page 82 of Final Drive

Bo goes still with his hand on the counter.

“In the truck you said he blocked the stairs.”

“He did.”

“You said you told him you’d break his fingers.” Bo still hasn’t moved. “You didn’t say what for.”

“For this.” I put two fingers under my own chin, in the same place. My voice comes out flat and far away. “He tilted my face up and had a look at it.”

“And?”

“And it took me three seconds to tell him to move his hand.” I dig my thumbnail into the seam of my bag strap. “Three seconds where I just stood there.”

The refrigerator kicks on. Outside, a car goes past, and the sound of it stretches out longer than it should.

Gray pushes off the door frame.

“I have to go,” he says.

He’s already got his keys in his hand by the time I turn around.

“Where?”

“I can’t tell you yet.”

“Try.”

“Reese.” His eyes come up to mine, and whatever’s happening behind them is locked down so tight I can’t get a single reading off it. “It isn’t what you think.”

“You have no idea what I think.”

He stops, starts again, and his voice comes out worse the second time. “I’ll be back tonight. I’m asking you to trust that.”

“Then go.”

The front door closes with a soft click, which is worse than a slam would have been. His engine turns over and the gravel noise shrinks down the drive until it quits.

I stare at the empty hallway.

“He isn’t running,” Bo says behind me.

“You don’t know that.”

“I’ve sat behind that man for three years.” Bo comes around the counter. He doesn’t touch me. “Sit down.”

“I’m fine standing.”

“I know it.”

He pulls a chair out anyway and stands beside it with his arms crossed until I give in and sit down, resenting it the whole time.

He heats the gumbo slowly, with his back to me, giving me the length of a stovetop to get my breathing under control, and he doesn’t fill any of it with talking. When he sets the bowl down in front of me my stomach turns over.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Six bites.”

“Bo.”