Chapter Seventeen

Logan

Another wild and crazy day in Crowley and not a thing to report. I rest my head in my hands and stare down at the papers on my desk. The same papers I’ve been looking at over and over. The black letters start to blur and swirl together until I blink my eyes, making them snap back into place.

I’ve been staring at this file for too long. While I haven’t officially reopened the case on Angela’s father, I’ve been secretly working on it nonstop. I know there’s something here that no one else caught. I know the path to the truth lies in this file and I can’t pinpoint a damn thing. Not to mention Smith pressing down on me every chance he gets, reminding me that he’ll go public with what he knows if I don’t deliver.

I read over everything so many times I almost have the report memorized. I’ve stared at photos, things I can’t unsee, for too long, just waiting for something to present itself. Tracing every step that my dad went through four years ago, I’ve checked the roster of workers and compared it to the interviews. Because most of these guys are migrant workers, we can only account for about half of them. That leaves four men unaccounted for and gone like the wind. Miguel, Anton, Mike, and Roland. The names mock me from the page. There are records of the department trying to make contact, but nothing ever came of these four.

Leaning back in my chair, the old furniture creaks in the silent room. I blow out a breath, stretch my arms out to each side and stare at the stained ceiling tiles. With all this work I’ve put in and all the frustration, I still haven’t been able to bring it up with Angela. Sure, I’ve had plenty of opportunities. But every time I get an opening, a mention of her dad or her mom’s mental condition, I can’t seem to do it. Though I know I have to.

Going out with this girl has brought new life to my tired routine of small-town existence. She’s so different than the other girls around here. Hell, she’s different than any girl I’ve ever been with, including Wren. Different in a way that makes me smile when I think of her. Different in a way that makes me want to be the reason she smiles.

Angela is beautiful, sexy, and smart—but not in a way that makes others feel inferior. Even when they are. She is shy, but gets these bursts of confidence that turn me on like nothing before. And there’s so much more to her. I want to know everything. And the sex? It was amazing. It was what I’ve been searching for all these years—a real connection with someone. And I could be risking it all for this case.

The phone rings, breaking me out of my thoughts. Trudy answers from her office and the room is quiet again. I glance at the clock. Two hours left and I’m off. All I can think about is falling back into bed with Angela. I want to memorize every curve of her body and every word she says. I want to watch her orgasm over and over and then ask her more questions about her life. I want her to think about me when she feels the soreness in her thighs and when she wonders what our next date will be. I’ve got so much more to give her. This girl is going to love me.

My shoulders straighten and I clear my throat. Do I want that? Love hasn’t been in my vocabulary for a long time. I’ve been so good at avoiding it, that the notion feels foreign to me now. I don’t know if love is in the cards for Angela and me, but I know I want to find out if it could be.

…

Ten hours of sleep and I am still tired. The dreams from last night stick with me all through my shower and lunch of Mom’s leftovers. They were nothing solid, no story or timeline, just an endless loop of disturbing images over and over. Some were things I’d seen before, but some were new. Angela crying, broken and sobbing, then anger—so much anger pouring out of her fiery gaze. And I knew it was all directed at me.

I try to shake it off, knowing it’s the guilt of wanting to use her for information on her father’s case. But it hangs over me for hours. I pop my first beer at noon, because when you feel like a piece of shit, drinking seems like the answer. Scott and Devin show up soon after with more beer, like an answer to my self-pitying prayers.

“So, what’s up with you and that waitress?” Devin asks, taking a seat on the sofa and kicking his feet up onto the coffee table.

I swat his feet off and give him a look that says “you know better.”

“What?” he asks. “Scott won’t tell me shit and you’ve been spending lots of time with her from what I hear.”

“Oh yeah? You and the old ladies down at Boone’s been chatting it up in the produce department? What’s the word on Gertrude’s liver spots?”

Devin swallows down half his beer and grins. “Oh, seems like I’ve hit a nerve. Come on, man. I’m just asking what the whole town wants to know.”

“Yeah, and if he tells you, the whole town will know,” Scott chimes in, taking a seat in the recliner before popping open his own beer.

“Pssht,” Devin says. “If they don’t hear something soon, they just start making stuff up. You know how this works.”

“Fucking true,” I say, twisting the beer bottle around in my grip as a distraction. “Okay, first? Her name is Angela, not ‘the waitress,’ you dick.”

Devin holds up his hands, eyes wide in apology.

“And we haven’t been spending that much time together.”

“Well, we sure haven’t seen you around,” Devin says, leaning back into the large cushions on the sofa.

“Didn’t know you were clockin’ me so hard, Dev. You want a piece of this?” I ask, gesturing to my crotch.

“Fuck off, Sawyer. You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, man. I’ve been working a lot. Smith has been out, so we’re all covering for him. As for Angela, she’s sweet. I like her. That’s all you need to know.” I rest my ankle on the opposite knee and wait for the smartass comments, but nothing comes. I don’t want to give them too much information. That makes me vulnerable in a town that is already waiting to eat me up.

“You like her,” Scott repeats.

“She’s sweet,” Devin says.

I glance to each one of them, daring them to challenge me. Without another word between us, I nod. A few seconds pass and they each shrug, returning their attention to their beers. Inside, I celebrate. Because what I know of Angela is mine. It belongs to me and that’s where it will stay. Another thought of her innocent, sugary smile and guilt cracks me in the ribs. It’s like a pulse that fires through every nerve in my body. Those visions from my dream replay and I squeeze my eyes shut to avoid them. I down my beer, emptying the bottle to flush all this guilt away. “Who’s ready for another?”