Page 78 of The Sin Eater

“The carnival dude, the one with the weird eyes, said I should tell him the truth, but I didn’t. I couldn’t, like, literally could not make the words. He’s got a thing about honesty, or whatever, so after y’all called me out, I texted him and told him I was blocking his phone.”

I roll onto my back, eyes closed. “And he hasn’t tried to text me back.”

“You told him you blocked him and now you’re mad that he hasn’t texted you?” Micah’s laughing for real now. “How old are you, man? That shit is right out of junior year of high school.”

“Shut. Up.” I grind the heels of my hands into my eyes.

“Okay, so, it doesn’t sound irreparable to me, to be honest.”

Sighing, I tip my head so my chin is the highest point on my body. “Damon Clemens is so far out of my league it’s not even funny. He’ll never... I mean, there’s no point.”

Micah stands, offering me his hand. “Come on. Let’s get something to eat.”

I let him haul me to my feet and, after giving my hair a once-over in the mirror, I follow him to the door.

At the top of the stairs, he turns and says, “A sincere apology can go a long way, but you have to mean it.”

He jogs down the stairs, the truth of his obviously hard-earned experience echoing behind him.

Again, I follow him. The decision is easy. I want the help he and Geordi have offered me, and I want to get to know Micah better.

And for the first time in over a week, there’s the smallest flicker of hope in my heart.

Over the course of a dinner that turns out better than it ought to have, I get an actual text from Damon, and that flicker turns into something like a plan.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Damon

It’s arms day, so I have to be careful not to put too much pressure on my shoulder. Anything that has me lifting my arms overhead can be problematic. It’s got to be done, though it’s hard not to get frustrated.

Even after a couple days, some of Roger’s comments echo, particularly now while I’m trying to get through a set of simple overhead presses. I know blowing out your rotator cuff fucked you up, but that doesn’t mean you gotta spend the rest of your life taking what comes.

Is that what I’m doing? Taking what comes? I center myself, sweat sticking my shirt to the small of my back. The weight in my left hand is ten pounds heavier than the one in my right, and on an inhale, I raise them to my shoulders. Feet spread, core tight, I press up, moving slow so my right shoulder has time to complain.

Exhale. Lower my arms to let the weights rest at my shoulders. Inhale. Press up. Exhale. Lower. I didn’t get here till after eight p.m., so most of the post-work crowd has gone home.There are a few people I recognize, gym rats like me, people who cram a workout in wherever they can.

Inhale. Up. I’m not sure whether I’m taking what comes, or if I’m suffering from inertia, like I’m afraid to commit to anything in case it blows up. Exhale. Lower. My phone pings, and for a second my gut jumps because maybe it’s Ezra.

It’s not Ezra. I finally sent that text, and he hasn’t responded, proving that he blocked me. Just another example of how I ruin the things I want. The deal with Ezra wasn’t on the same scale as my baseball career. With more time, though, maybe it could have been.

Stuffing those thoughts away, I make myself finish the set and wipe down the weights before I check my phone. It’s Mo, and they’ve got a story to tell.

I found her. Your girl, Sue Myhre, was born in Bozeman, Montana, in June 1964, and she moved to Seattle in ’85. Reported missing in ’88, but it doesn’t look like the cops tried very hard to find her.

I texted back a quickThat’s not cool.

For real. I found one news article that said her family tried to find out what happened to her, but most people she knew in Seattle thought she’d moved back home.

That drags my mood down even further. James Smith got away with murder, and there’s nothing I can do for Sue Myhre or her family. I’m still avoiding McGraw, and I try to tell myself that if Mo could track her down, so could the cops.

If they even bothered to try. The whole thing really sucks.

I text back, thanking them for the info, then give myself permission to do another set of bicep curls rather than lat pull-downs. Somewhere between curl ten and twelve, I have an idea. A big, heavy, unexpected idea, the kind of thing that resonates in my bones.

I am already a security guard. Maybe I should look into becoming a cop.

“Dorinda’s gonna laugh her ass off,” I murmur, drawing a glance from the guy on the bench near me. I shrug and he goes back to his set of skull crushers.