Page 30 of Mountain Man

REG

Knock knock

I rang the doorbell for good measure and stepped aside, staring idly at the mud-crusted sneakers next to the pot of red geraniums on the porch. The street was quiet in the early morning hour. Damn. Maybe it was too early.

I checked my watch and winced. Seven fifteen.

No one wanted the police showing up unannounced at this hour. I should have texted and⁠—

“Reg?”

Waylon filled the doorway. His feet were bare, his hair was damp, his jeans slung low on his hips, and a Mill Depot tee twisted at his waist as if he’d yanked it on in a hurry. He looked good enough to eat.

But I wasn’t here for that. Not even close.

“Mind if I come in? I promise not to take much of your time,” I assured him in a cordial tone reserved for law-abiding citizens. I probably could have, should have done better for the guy I’d fucked into a hotel mattress two weeks ago and who’d done my family a huge freaking favor last night.

“Uh, yeah. I just brewed some coffee.” He motioned me inside Jed’s old house. “Want a cup?”

“Yes, thanks. That would be nice.”

I followed him through a wood-paneled living room furnished with a mismatched sofa and armchair. The gigantic flat-screen over a brick fireplace dominated the space. I noted the stack of games, recognizing a few of Rhys’s favorites. Generic forest prints hung on the walls. They were borderline tacky but not offensive.

The kitchen was a mishmash of old meets new. An avocado-green fridge and brown-tile countertops didn’t exactly complement the stainless-steel range or the new cabinetry Jed had bragged about installing, but overall, the rental was in decent shape.

“I’d ask if you take milk or sugar, but I don’t think I have either.”

“Black is perfect.”

Waylon poured coffee into chipped mugs with cartoon characters on them and set one on the counter near me. “Don’t judge. Daffy Duck and Elmer Fudd came with the house.”

“Jed is a man of discerning taste,” I snarked, studying the linoleum for a beat before gingerly meeting his gaze. Waylon knew why I was here, so I might as well spit it out and let him get on with his day. “Thanks for last night.”

“You’re welcome, but there’s no need for⁠—”

“That’s not true.” I chewed my bottom lip as I drew in a deep breath. “My dad is battling dementia.”

“I’m sorry.”

I swallowed hard. “Me, too. Supposedly, this is the early stages, but he’s gotten worse lately. My mom disagrees. She says he’s restless, and that’s retirement for you. She’s conveniently forgetting that he’s been retired for more than a decade…and that it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense for a guy who knows this town inside and out to fixate on street signs that have been around for fucking ever.”

Waylon cradled his mug, his mouth drawn with concern. “Does he know?”

“Yeah. He knows. That might be the worst part.” My voice cracked. I glanced away, hoping to gather my composure. “It’s not like he’s walking in a fog twenty-four seven. At least not yet. It seems to hit out of the blue, usually in the late afternoon. Not every day, though. I put a tracker on his phone recently so we could find him. It started with walks that cut into his Red Sox viewing schedule. Dad doesn’t like to miss his games. He’d come home disoriented, which my mom chalked up to dehydration. But it happened again…and again. Mom called me frantic one night. Dad was just…gone. No note, no word, and no cell phone. I had the whole force out looking for him. Petey found him in Elmwood, staring at the fountain as if he’d never seen it.”

“And now street signs?”

There was no judgment in his tone. Maybe that was why I continued.

“He’s sure there’s a conspiracy and that the police can fix this, but he doesn’t trust just anyone. He’d prefer Chief Gorman to come and that’s a problem, since he died five years ago. Dad’s very suspicious of anyone else.” I swiped a hand over my jaw. “Jesus, Waylon, he either hired most of my staff or he went to school with their parents, arrested their deadbeat cousins, or was a pallbearer at their grandfather’s funerals. My dad knows everyone here. Everyone. Wood Hollow is his hometown.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“The specialist put him on a new medication that’s supposed to slow memory loss. There’s no cure. It’s a matter of managing it, ideally at home. At least, that’s what my mom wants. She insists that she’s got this. ‘To have and to hold, in sickness and health,’ she says. This is what they signed up for.”

“That’s…”

“A lot.” I shook my head ruefully. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all that on you. I figured you deserved an explanation. Unfortunately, it’s not a happy one. I’m just here to thank you for calling me and staying with him.”