Page 93 of Flint’s Strike

I should laugh. The urge is there. But I’m still stuck on the part where Nate thinks I’m capable of killing Eliot.

“Eliot’s fine. Why wouldn’t he be?”

Nate’s eyebrows disappear under hair that desperately needs a trim. “Have you forgotten Friday?”

Oh.

“We...patched things up.” The inferno currently crawling up my neck to my cheeks has me adjusting the AC vents, even though I know it won’t do a damn bit of good.

“Then what’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing. Ain’t a girl allowed to like strawberries without you makin’ it a whole thing?”

The Impala glides to a smooth stop, while the street cleaner runs the red light without a single ounce of regret. There are days I wish I could still write traffic tickets.

Nate turns, and his dark eyes bore into me. “Three years, Parker. We’ve been going to Dot’s for three damn years, and you’ve had a strawberry milkshake exactly four times. Your mom’s birthday—though it took me until the second year to figure that one out—and the day we worked that mass casualty event down at the fairgrounds.”

Shit.

“Fuck it.” The light turns green, and Nate’s shoulders heave with a loud sigh. “I’m guessing you’ve spent your whole life carrying your pain alone. But I don’t think you’ve spent five minutes figuring out whether you have to.”

I swallow hard, reach for my water bottle, and drain half of it before my throat loosens enough for me to speak again.

“How’d you figure out February ninth was my mom’s birthday?” I ask, my voice cracking on the last word.

“It’s the only time you bring kolaches into the station.”

“How the hell did kolaches lead you to my mom?” The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them. And the pain they put in Nate’s eyes.

“I’m good at my job,” he says quietly, then pulls into a garage across the street from Apex’s offices. He doesn’t say another word until he finds the perfect parking space where the Impala won’t risk a single door ding. After he turns off the car, he returns his hands to the wheel, his fingers curling around the leather until his knuckles turn white. “You don’t have to talk to me, Parker. But I sure hope you’re talking to someone.”

Before he can reach for the door handle, I wrap my fingers around his forearm. “I talked to Eliot this weekend. About my mom.”

“Good.” He gives me a short nod, then tucks the keys into his pocket. “We should go before Todd gets a chance to caffeinate.”

The complete one-eighty in his demeanor knocks me sideways. “That’s it? No commentary?”

“You want commentary, I’ve got plenty. I’m choosing not to use it.” He finally cracks a small grin. “Don’t get used to the restraint. It’s costing me.”

“I’ll tell you, too. If you want. Once we get to Dot’s.”

“Okay. I’ll add it to the agenda.” He holds up his hand, and ticks items off on his fingers. “Interview corrupt building inspector, catch arsonist, order a heart attack on a plate, consume a strawberry milkshake in record time, then pour your heart out to your partner. That’s a solid day right there. We manage all that, AJ might even give us the rest of the week off.”

And just like that, we’re back on solid ground. The intense craving for that strawberry milkshake is even starting to fade.

“AJ might. Chief Stone? Not a chance in hell.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Parker

We emerge into the morning sun and stare up at a tall, glass office building. Apex Building Solutions occupies the entire fourth floor of the building on Congress, the kind of address that photographs well and tells you nothing. The receptionist buzzes us back to a cubicle near the windows, where Todd Ferris stands up so fast his chair rolls into the desk behind him.

He starts sweating almost immediately, and swipes a hand over his forehead, disturbing one of the worst combovers I’ve seen outside of politics. His driver’s license put him at forty-two years old, but he’s not aging well.

“Mr. Ferris? I’m Captain Parker Elmore and this is Captain Nate Hardison. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Oh, God. You have to believe me. I never drive that fast, but my kid threw up in his backpack, it was leaking all over the floorboards, and he was about to do it again. Do you have any idea how much vomit a fifteen-year-old has in him?”