The Girls She Left Behind (29 page)

Behind them Trey Washburn came out of the bar alone, headed for Lizzie, but then saw Dylan and turned away toward his truck. In his puffy down jacket he looked even larger and more bearlike than usual.

But just as good, as genuine and well intentioned as ever. She would have to have a talk soon with Trey, to explain…what?

Even she didn't know. “As far as staying goes, I've still got some unfinished business here,” she told Dylan.

Meaning Nicki; it was going to take more than a few weeks or months to find a little girl who'd been missing for years, if she was here at all.

If she was even alive. Dylan poked the curb with the toe of his shoe, then spoke quietly.

“I miss you, Lizzie. I know you don't want to hear it, but I do. And I could be wrong but I think you feel the same.”

He looked up at her. “I know you do, in fact.”

“What about your new girlfriend?”

Trey got into his truck, the interior light showing his kind, honest face for an instant before he slammed the heavy door. Then after a few seconds the light went out.

“That's not going to work.” Dylan shook his head ruefully. “I was kidding myself. No sense kidding her, too.”

He waited until Trey pulled a U-turn and drove off, then went on: “I'm going back to Bangor tonight. Or I could…”

He stopped, started again. “Or I could come home with you. If you want.”

She was tempted. But that way lay disaster.

He spread his hands in appeal. “It's never going to work with anyone else, Lizzie. I know that now. I'm in it for the long haul with you, pretty much whether I like it or not.”

That made her smile. “How flattering.”

His answering grin, darkly handsome as ever, nearly trashed her resolve. “Yeah. Well. Anyway, see you around.”

Turning, he strode through the icy rain to his car and got in. As he pulled away from the curb, the light in the
AREA
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sign went out, leaving her in darkness.

She got into the Blazer, where Rascal's slobbery kisses didn't substitute for the ones she could have had. But it would be too ungrateful to let the dog know that, so she smoothed his long satiny ears, praising him in a way that would have been excessive if he hadn't been such a noble beast.

The Blazer started with a roar. She snapped the headlights on and set the wipers to sweeping smearily across the windshield. By now the rain was an icy torrent, sheeting down the glass.

At home, a fast trip around the cold, dark yard satisfied Rascal; once inside, she fixed herself a toddy of whiskey and hot lemonade, passing up the pain pills yet again, and took her mug with her to bed.

Flannel pajamas, clean cotton socks, and the patchwork quilt that Missy Brantwell's mother had made for her all conspired with the soft lamplight in her pine-paneled bedroom to make her feel, if not much less lonely, then at least warm and safe.

Hey, it ain't Boston. And I still hate knotty pine. But it'll do.
She pulled the quilt up snugly and settled against the pillows with Rascal sprawled by her side.

It'll do just fine for now.
She'd opened her book, a history of the French people in Maine's St. John Valley, and had taken the first soothing swallow of her hot drink when the high-low signal tone from the scanner unit on the kitchen counter alerted her.

“All units…” Springing out of bed, she was dressed, had her boots on, and was tightening her duty belt when she realized:

No pain. Not much, anyway. Certainly not more than she could handle. “Rascal, you hold down the fort here for me, okay?”

The dog looked up wisely, then slowly lowered himself, his huge paws crossed in an attitude of patience. Lizzie grabbed her badge, keys, and duty weapon, not bothering to turn on the outside light; she knew her own front walk by heart.

Outside, she breathed in the ice-washed night air.
Alive,
she thought, savoring it.

Something cold kissed her cheek. It was snow, swirling down unseen like a blessing in disguise.

This book is for George and Penny

The Dead Cat Bounce

Triple Witch

Wicked Fix

Repair to Her Grave

Wreck the Halls

Unhinged

Mallets Aforethought

Tool & Die

Nail Biter

Trap Door

The Book of Old Houses

A Face at the Window

Crawlspace

Knockdown

Dead Level

A Bat in the Belfry

Winter at the Door

The Girls She Left Behind

S
ARAH
G
RAVES
lives with her husband in Eastport, Maine, one remote rural road away from the Allagash wilderness territory and the Great North Woods.

sarahgraves.net

Facebook.com/​SarahGraves2011

@SarahGraves2011