Page 69 of Jensen

I don’t say anything. Up above us, there’s a loft with a queen bed. I presume the door just off it is the bathroom. Downstairs has only a kitchen, a dining table coated in dust, and a couch beneath the loft.

“I might clean it up if we’ll be here for a while?” she says.

“Indefinitely,” I say.

My heart is beating sideways. There’s something lodged in my throat that I just can’t swallow. Silently, I set the bags on the table and cross the room, opening the breadbox. Inside is a pistol, a little terrier engraved into the handle.

“Thank God for Jack Russell,” I murmur.

She watches as I take it out and set it on the table. “Who is he? You act like he’s your guardian angel or something.”

“More like the useful devil on my shoulder.” I check the chamber, and it’s loaded. “I’m leaving. You stay here until I get back and shoot anybody who walks up here who isn’t me.”

Her brows crease instantly. “What?”

“I have business,” I say. “Keep the doors locked. I’m going to pull the truck into the barn with the horses.”

“Horses?”

“Jack sent us two.”

I leave, locking the door. She’s confused, but I can’t talk right now, or I might spill more than I should. My stomach is an uneasy void as I get in the truck. The entire plane ride, I wondered how I would feel coming back and seeing him again.

Now, I know—dread and anger.

I turn on the radio. Then, I turn it off. The hills fly by until they turn flat and become road signs along the fringes of the highway. Then, I’m through the outskirts of Lexington and on the west side. The closer I get, the whiter my knuckles go.

The parking lot lets up a puff of dust as I pull in. I cut the engine and sit in silence for a moment. I tongue the inside of my cheek, tasting a bite mark. I think I put it there in my sleep. The windows of the diner are tinted, and it looks like it got a new paint job. Other than that, everything is just the way I left it.

I get out and walk across the lot through the front door. Inside, the blast of air conditioning makes the sweat on my neck prickle. The interior got a makeover. Everything is clean, shiny linoleum and vintage metal seats.

The waitress behind the counter lifts her hand and calls out that I can sit anywhere. I nod, scanning the room.

My eyes fall on a sloping figure.

Now I feel something else, and it’s fucking grim.

He’s sitting on the left, second from the back row, in his Sunday clothes. No suit, more ruggedly casual than I remember him being. His face is lightly lined, his temples frosted. Age has been kind to him physically, but I see the years in the hooded eyes that turn on me.

I cross the room and sink down opposite him.

He takes the unlit cigarette from his mouth and sets it in his coffee saucer. I can smell him. He’s wearing the same cologne or deodorant. We look at each other. I expected to feel like I’m nineteen again seeing him, but I don’t.

Instead, I feel like I’m back from the wilderness, big enough to face him this time.

“Long time, no see,” he drawls.

The waitress appears. I order a black coffee, same as him. Then, it’s just us again.

I clear my throat.

“Where did you bury them?” I ask.

He clears his throat too. “How do you know I did?”

“Because I know you.”

His lids flicker. “They’re in my family plot.”