Page 34 of Love Again

I feel like I’m speaking to a child. I repeat what I just said, slowly. “She filed divorce papers.”

He waves a hand. “Ignore it. She doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing.”

I shake my head and take a bite of the crepe.

“For someone so worried about a certificate, you sure are giving a lot of power to some papers from a tight-assed lawyer. Hurry up, you’re going to be late.”

΅

Detective Jack Carlson’s office is tucked away in the back of the station, which is housed partially under the lighthouse museum in downtown Rockland. Yards from the harbor, the sounds of shipping—horns blowing, diesel engines churning, ferries whistling—call from the shoreline and grow louder every time the door opens. There are paintings on the wall—real art—and photos of cops hauling nets, helping an elderly woman with groceries, and another of a crying little girl with a dropped ice-cream cone and a young guy in a uniform offering her his.

Small-town life doesn’t mean escaping from big-time problems, however.

I would have offered a ride to Devon, but I couldn’t get the divorce papers out of my mind. I’m not mad, I’m hurting. For her. For me. For us. Those papers feel like nails in a coffin.

Devon is already there in one of the conference rooms, with photos spread out on a long table. A dark-haired guy stands next to her, and they’re talking like they all know each other. Carlson is busy grabbing a completely trashed mug with a hokey joke across the front from his desk and waves me into the room.

I’m introduced to Mateus Gutiérrez from Colton Security, and I realize this is one of Finn Colton’s men. Of course, Devon knows him. Of course, they all know each other.

I’m odd man out.

Devon knows I’m in the room but she won’t look at me. I can feel her shoulders tighten.

Carlson introduces himself to me and then to Devon and Mateus. It feels surreal.

“Actually, Devon and I have worked together before,” I say.

Carlson raises an eyebrow. “You were out in Colorado too?”

“We were both smokejumpers.”

“So everybody knows somebody,” says Mateus. “Cool.”

Not cool. My stomach is a pit of frothy acid.

Devon is in jeans, an oatmeal mock turtleneck pullover, her hair in that little bun again, her green eyes flashing, and, of course, work boots. Always with the work boots.

She’s my wife, I try to tell myself, but it feels hopeless. Because the truth is, she isn’t much longer.

All I can do is trust how I feel about her. All I can understand is what I know about her. All I know is that we’re meant to be together.

I have to trust myself to know what I want, and I want her.

It’s been hard to trust myself since Max was killed.

It was hard to trust the sun would rise.

But it did.

Slowly, I’ll have to prove this fundamental truth to her. That, and the fact love is not some enemy to be defeated.

“I took some advice given to me by someone in this room a while ago and invested in this,” says Carlson and pulls out a thin tripod-looking device, a camera, and a capture kit that looks like a small canvas bag. He turns to Devon. “Keller knows I’ve got this. I told him we’d loan it out to the three of you at the next fire scene.” His face darkens. “Because this isn’t over.”

“That’s a Ricoh Theta?” I reach for the small, cylindrical camera on the table. These are expensive, but the software that runs off the images clocks in at about ten grand, which is more expensive.

Carlson seems pleased. “I’m glad you know what you’re doing.”

Picking it up, I appraise it, trying hard not to meet Devon’s eyes. “This is a sweet setup. Not cheap.”