Page 42 of Carter

“So what have you done?” he asks, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“For what?” I ask.

“Healing.”

I don’t want to lie to the guy, but if I tell him the truth, he’s going to think I’m nuts. Or maybe he won’t. Maybe it’ll make him feel better.

“I am just really good at hiding my wounds,” I say.

“I can’t imagine that being good. If you don’t take care of them, they get worse.”

“So I’ve heard. Yet, here I am. Still the same.”

“Until one day… you’re not.”

I’m not really sure what to say to that, so I say nothing. I bring my attention to the menu instead.

“You’re not paying for this,” Carter says. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Too late. I already did.”

“Well, you’re not.”

“Fine. But I’m only getting a coffee.”

“Then we’ll just have to go out for lunch again so I can make it up to you.”

After the words leave his mouth, he looks like he regrets them. I’m quick-thinking, and I save the situation so he doesn’t feel weird. The last thing I want is for this to be weird. I need his trust, not to make him uncomfortable—even if I’m not the one doing it.

“It’ll give us time to chat about the case. Good thinking.”

Is that disappointment in his eyes?

No.

Could it be?

Maybe.

It’s not.

Maybe he just wants a friend. I don’t know how to do that; I’ve never been anyone’s friend. But I guess I’ll try.

When it’s our turn, Carter orders food for himself and for his boss. I order my coffee and don’t try to pay, even though my hand is itching to do so. It’s just one of those things I do—have always done.

The walk back to the library is quicker than when we walked this way, and the warmth inside is welcome. There’s a comforting quiet in the building as people read or look for what they need. There is nothing loud about books. Except for some of these covers.

I can’t remember the last time I set foot in a library for a reason other than work. Middle school, maybe. When they brought us on a field trip to encourage reading. Much good that did.

“You okay?” Carter asks.

“Yeah, just thinking about how the last time I was in a library for something other than work was in middle school.”

“Wow, you can remember that far back?” He nudges me with his elbow.

I narrow my gaze. “I’m not that old.”

He grins as he makes his way to an older woman sitting behind the desk. She has kind eyes but a serious look on her face. Fitting for her position as a librarian, and I don’t usually give much thought to stereotypes. I’ve seen the nicest people do the most horrific things.