Page 34 of Soft Flannel Hank

He felt his body growing relaxed and heavy as he tried to parse out two things he could smell. Laundry detergent. And there, in the back of his mind as he sank deeper into the chair and drifted towards sleep, coconut.

In his dreams, he tasted coffee and soft skin, the cotton of a T-shirt sucked into his mouth, coconut, and cobbler.

Hank woke up with a mouth that tasted as if he hadn’t brushed his teeth in a year, let alone seven hours. He made coffee and opened a protein bar from the box in his pantry. He sat alone in his quiet kitchen in his empty house, the sound of the heat being the only thing louder than his chewing to his ears.

After his shower, he stood with a towel wrapped around his waist and trimmed his beard again over the sink, taking care with the edges. Beard trimmer in hand, he contemplated shaving it back to the mustache he’d had before.

Magda used to tell him he had a top lip like Tom Selleck, and Hank had been proud of that comparison. But the beard felt comfortable now. Comforting, in fact. He wasn’t that man with the mustache anymore.

He looked at himself in the mirror. His hair hung down past his chin, the dark brown threaded through with gray. The hair clippers were just under the vanity. He could pull them out and buzz it off into a high and tight like he’d had. Before. But just like he’d felt that he’d outgrown his mustache, he’d also outgrown that haircut.

Instead, he opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out one of the elastic ponytail holders Anna had left behind. He gathered the top half of his hair, smoothing his big hands over and over, collecting it back and securing it in the elastic at the top back of his head.

Hank cocked his head to the side, taking it in. In some ways, he felt like he was trying on a costume of another person entirely. But in others, it felt like he was growing into a new skin after shedding the old one months before.

He’d made a decision in the shower that morning. He wasn’t going to ambush Esther. He was going to drive over that afternoon and talk to her. He would tell her what he knew and give her a chance to do the right thing. And he would wait with her, to either supervise her surrender or to bring it about himself. It felt better for his conscience.

It was after four o’clock when Hank pulled on his jacket and went out to his truck to drive to the cabin. The sun would set around six, and Nat had told him that Callum’s men would be arriving as soon as it was dark.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle as he pulled onto the gravel road that led to Esther. He parked the truck next to her Prius and couldn’t help but think how many moments in his life repeated themselves. He climbed the steps, crossed the deck, and knocked on the door. He told himself he was ready to see her again, that he was stronger. That she wouldn’t affect him, witch or no.

But nothing could have prepared him for Esther answering the door in a white tank top and little plaid shorts, wool socks pulled up to her knees. His mouth went dry as she ran a nervous hand up to her hair, pushing the curls behind her ear.

“Hank,” Esther said, her surprise evident. She looked excited to see him, even behind all those nervous tells—touching her hair, shifting on her feet, biting her bottom lip.

“Esther,” he replied, feeling her name rumble in his chest.

They stood in the doorway, her just barely inside and him just barely outside, staring at one another, until Esther shook herself. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Do you want to come in?”

He grunted, nodding, and stepped over the threshold as she stepped back. He closed the door behind him but didn’t move further into the cabin. She’d been here less than a day, and he could already see how she and Magda had put their touches on the space. There was a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire in the fireplace and everything to do with the woman who’d built it.

He didn’t know her well. That was true. But from the moment he’d met her, he’d also felt as if he’d known her all his life. As if his heart had been waiting for hers all along and that it recognized her immediately. Which made what he was about to do all the more heartbreaking.

“I didn’t expect to see you again,” she said softly.

“That makes two of us,” he replied, running his own hand through his hair, feeling a momentary shock when it didn’t slide between his fingers the way he’d grown accustomed to it doing. Oh right, the ponytail. He suddenly felt very stupid for having said ponytail. He’d seen them on twentysomething athletes or musical artists. But not forty-five-year-old men with beer bellies and broken hearts.

“You were so angry yesterday. I just—” Her voice fell. “I guess I just didn’t understand.”

“Can we sit down?” Hank needed to sit down for this conversation. If he didn’t sit, he’d do nothing but pace the floor like a caged animal.

“Sure,” she said, gesturing to the couch and an old, overstuffed armchair that sat next to it. Hank sat in the armchair. He leaned forward, resting his forearms against his thighs, his ham fists clasped together. Esther sat on the couch, bringing her legs up and sitting cross-legged. She pulled a blanket off the back of the couch and over her thighs.

Silence. Again. Only the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth and his heartbeat in his ears.

“So?” Esther asked, drawing out the vowel into a long question.

Hank cleared his throat. No sense in delaying the inevitable with small talk. Hank had never been good at small talk anyway.

“Do you know the name Callum MacLeod?”

Esther blanched, her eyes opening wide. She made a choking sound in her throat but then coughed, obviously attempting to cover it.

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

Hank narrowed his eyes. He’d been a part of enough interrogations during his career. The ones who lacked the control over their responses, who looked like a trapped animal, always,alwayswere the most piss-poor liars.

“I think it does, Esther MacLaren. I think you know exactly who he is.”