Page 55 of Love Bound
Bryce crunches ice from his giant cup of water. "All this because why? You arrested his brother for burglary?"
"Yeah," I say quietly and flick a glance to Nic.
***
On the walk back, the breeze has kicked up again and we stroll down to the pier where we stand in the little bay, watching small white caps bounce the boats around. Most are lobster boats, a few are nice retiree boats up from Massachusetts, and only one sticks out like a sore thumb. Some rich guy's yacht, a sixty-five-footer with five satellite receivers that towers over the rest of the boats. Small dinghies, like the one I saw Claire climb out of, rise and sink with surges.
"It stinks here," says Jackson, digging his hands in his pockets. "It reminds me of home."
I've grown to love the salty, fishy smell of the bay. It smells alive, potent, and raw.
I glance to the left at The Inn on a hill above the bay. It’s weathered and beaten, a few shutters hanging at odd angles, but it's mine. The clinic—tucked around the side, just visible from where we stand—sits next to it.
"I'm going back," I say, shoving my hand in my pockets.
"Like hell you are." Nic's voice is low. When he turns to face me, his blue eyes burn. "You walked. I believe you said, 'there's nothing for me here.' So no, you don’t get to come back. We'll monitor the fucking asshole. He'll get what's coming to him. He'll slip up."
"I'm going back to The Inn, Jesus." I pause and stare out at the bay for a moment longer.
All I can remember is Steven Miller's face as his sentence was delivered. He was thirty-two, five-ten, a hundred and fifty-five pounds with a trimmed mustache, sandy hair, deep brown eyes, and a cleft chin. A charmer. A murderer. When the sentencing came down, three years for breaking and entering my home where my wife and unborn child also died, he stood and looked remorseful and told the judge had he broken in earlier, maybe he would have been able to save them. The bailiff took him by the arm and as Miller rounded the table, he stared at me for just a second.
And winked.
My stomach tumbles again. As much as Nic and Bryce and Jackson are my friends, my brothers, being with them always brings up Allison. The trial. The inability to make evidence stick. The sickening feeling we were being played, that I was being played, in some grotesque revenge scenario.
Because that's what it was: revenge.
Steven Miller did have a brother. A twin, who died in prison and I put him there.
***
"They left already?" Claire's scanning the empty side yard between the two buildings from her place by the kitchen window. She breaks away and sits on the shorter sofa.
"They're heading up to Searsport to see Jackson's dad," I tell her.
"You have a friend from around here?"
"It's how Allison found out about The Inn. He recommended it," I admit. "Jackson grew up in Searsport on a lobster boat."
"So he's close to his dad?"
I force a smile. "I wouldn't go that far. This is more like an obligation."
"Well, I wish I could've met them," she says, almost coyly. "Especially a native Mainer. We're rare." She's wrapped in a blanket, sipping tea, and looks amazing.
I want to have her right now on the floor. But instead, I say something practical. "They'll be back tomorrow."
"You know it’s okay to talk about her," she says suddenly. "I mean, you should talk about her."
Instead of feeling chagrined or embarrassed, this only makes me want her, but in a different way, a softer way. "I know, but maybe not to you though," I say, and she shivers. "At least for now."
She nods, knowing on some very basic level that I'm right. She rises and busies herself with work stuff at the computer and I know I should head home and go back to The Inn, but this feels like home now.
I settle where she was sitting, tossing the throw to the other side of the sofa, and try to read my book. But I’m getting sidetracked every time she sighs or rises for more tea.
Finally, Claire turns around on her little stool and says, "I watched you guys out there with the roof. What a team."
"We are." I correct myself. "We were."
