Page 79 of Mack

As he stood there the door opened and he glanced over. The man from the motel parking lot stood just inside, looking around. When his eyes landed on Mack, they widened briefly before he smoothed it over and gave a slight nod.

Mack returned it and turned back to the counter.

He didn’t know for certain that was Troy Simmons. He had photos of a man leaving a motel room and a license plate he hadn’t run yet. That was it. His gut was telling him something, but his gut wasn’t probable cause, and he knew better than to let personal feelings cloud his judgment.

He picked up the coffee Connie poured without being asked and stared at the pass-through window to the kitchen.

But the man had recognized him. That much was clear. The flash of something in his eyes before he’d smoothed it over. That wasn’t the reaction of a stranger seeing a deputy. That was the reaction of someone who knew who he was looking at.

Which meant if this was Troy, Troy knew about him.

Which meant Mallory had been right to be afraid.

He kept his eyes forward, his breathing even and told himself to think like a deputy and not like a man who was two weeks out of the best thing that had happened to him in years.

When Connie set the bag on the counter he paid, nodded his thanks, and made himself walk the length of the counter on his way out. He didn’t look at the man directly. He didn’t need to. He caught him in his peripheral vision, saw the way he tracked him, sizing him up like certain men always did, trying to figure out how much of a problem he was going to be.

Mack walked out into the cold and stood on the sidewalk for a moment.

He had photos of the truck and the plate. And he had a man who’d just looked at him like he thought he’d already won.

He hadn’t won. Mack started walking back to the office. He needed to talk to Sam.

Sam was at his desk when Mack knocked on the door frame. He looked up, took one look at Mack’s face, and leaned back in his chair.

“Close the door,” he said.

Mack closed it and sat down across from him.

“I need to talk to you about something,” Mack said. “And I need you to hear me out before you say anything.”

“Alright.”

Mack turned his coffee cup in his hands. “There’s a man staying at Dalton’s Motel. I’ve seen him twice now. Once leaving the motel late at night and once in the diner today. He recognized me. Not as a deputy. As me specifically.”

Sam’s expression didn’t change. “Go on.”

“I’ve got photos of him and his plate.” Mack set his phone on the desk and slid it across. “Montana tags.”

Sam looked at the photos without picking the phone up. “And you think he’s connected to something.”

“I think he might be.”

Sam looked at him for a long moment. “Mack.”

“Sam.”

“Something has been bothering you since Sunday.” Sam picked up the phone. “You came in looking like someone had gut punched you and you’ve been going through the motions ever since. Now you’re bringing me photos of a man at a motel.” He tilted his head. “You want to tell me what’s actually going on?”

Mack stared at the desk.

“You’ve been seeing Mallory Nichols,” Sam said quietly. “Sunday, you came in looking like the floor dropped out. Now you’re bringing me photos of a stranger parked on a residential street.” He set the phone down. “I’m a sheriff, Mack. Not an idiot.”

Mack said nothing.

“I’ll look into it,” Sam said. “A suspicious vehicle in a residential area is enough for me to run a plate.” He stood. “You weren’t here when I decided to do that.”

“No,” Mack said. “I wasn’t.”