Page 39 of Wham Line (The Last Picks #10)

Big surprise: Indira hadn’t actually created an airborne poison out of dried pufferfish, uh, spleen (or whatever part of the fish contains the poison). Which was probably a good thing because if she had, we all would have died. It had been nothing more dangerous than powdered non-dairy creamer.

It had definitely freaked Larry out, though.

He’d sobbed and blubbered until Nalini finally wiped his face clean with a washcloth from the bathroom.

And Cheri-Ann, who had finally given up and come into the room (see?

my suspicions were correct!) gave him a Luden’s cough drop.

They don’t really help, but they do taste pretty good.

Salk and Dahlberg came. They split us up (and thank God, they took the gun before Indira got any more ideas). Indira and Larry ended up in the back of separate cruisers. When the sheriff got there, the questioning began.

It was a long night, made longer by the fact that even with Larry in custody, I couldn’t help worrying about what would happen to Indira.

So, I sat by the window in the Rock On Inn’s parlor and watched the night painted red and blue by the cruiser lights.

I couldn’t see Indira; the shadows were too deep. But I thought maybe she could see me.

I also drank a lot of tea and ate so many of Cheri-Ann’s shortbread cookies that she started laughing nervously every time she replenished the plate and saying things like “Boy, I thought I just filled this up.”

Yes, Cheri-Ann, you did. It’s called emotional eating. It’s one of my top ten skills.

(I didn’t say that, though.)

(Not because I’m afraid of her.)

Bobby, as always the best boyfriend ever, sat by me and held my hand, which was more contact than we’d had in days.

After what felt like an eternity, the sheriff opened the back of Salk’s cruiser and helped Indira out. I sprinted outside, Bobby close on my heels. (I also grabbed the last cookies from the plate because I knew I was going to need them to keep my strength up.)

I hugged Indira first. Then she hugged Bobby.

Nalini appeared a moment later, wrapping her arms around her aunt while Jethro hung back and tried to smile and rubbed the back of his neck—to be fair, the poor boy was having a version of Meet the Parents combined with the gunfight at the O.K.

Corral, so I couldn’t actually blame him.

And then, somehow, Keme was there. Indira drew him against her.

She held him for a long time. His thin shoulders never shook, but his hands were knotted in her sweater.

She murmured something to him over and over again.

The security lights in the parking lot threw a clean white sheet across her face, and she kept blinking away the glitter of tears.

(This is a side note, but I feel obliged to share: Keme was also in one of those ridiculous clay face masks because apparently Millie had convinced him to let her practice her facials, supposedly to help him relax while they waited to hear what was going on.

Millie had drawn a little heart in the clay on Keme’s forehead, and it made him look like a particularly grumpy Care Bear when he finally finished hugging Indira.)

When all the hugging was over, Fox wrapped a blanket around Indira’s shoulders and held her hand. It was hard to tell if it was simply one old friend supporting another, or if it was more than that. I couldn’t help wondering.

And since I have such a great poker face, that was probably why Bobby whispered, “It’s none of your business.”

“I know,” I whispered back. But I couldn’t help asking, “But do you think, you know, maybe?”

He did something with his eyebrows to express judgement of me and my wondering, and then he put his arm around me and pulled me close.

The best part of the evening was that Bobby had managed to record Larry’s confession.

This was why we made such a good team; I had the gift of gab (well, not really—I had the gift of social anxiety, which apparently somehow transformed, at moments of intense stress, into the gift of yammering while someone tried to kill me), and Bobby had the common sense to remember that a recording would be admissible in court.

Eventually, the sheriff sent us all home.

“If you want—” Bobby said as he walked me to the Malibu.

“We’re going to Portland,” I told him.

He was silent for the last few steps. Then he kissed me. And then he lifted me up without any apparent effort—which definitely tells you something after all that shortbread—and swatted me on the, um, bum, and put me down again.

I was gathering my dignity (and my words) when he headed toward the Pilot. He shot back over his shoulder, “There’s a hydrant at the end of my parents’ block.”

Finally, I managed “How dare you?”

“I love you. And I respect you. But just to be clear: don’t park there.”

And then he climbed into the Pilot.

It was weird—or maybe I was weird—because that little interaction made me smile for most of the drive.

It was good to have some quiet time. Good to be alone for a few minutes.

I kept the stereo off, and I listened to the hum of the tires, and the wind skimming the door of the sedan.

The headlights picked out hanging moss and the swordlike blades of ferns.

Reflector strips glimmered on utility poles.

When I drove over a two-lane bridge, and the wall of trees broke, the whole world seemed bright as day, and I looked down onto a crooked creek where a deer was drinking.

That room in the Rock On Inn seemed far away.

And I let myself, eventually, stop thinking about Larry’s grief, and Indira’s, and the fresh sorrows that had opened up in the lives of people who had cared about Sparkie and even Mal—if no one else, Jethro.

There was so much hurt in the world. And so much loneliness.

And I thought maybe Will Gower would understand that, if he ever had to solve a case like this.

I did not park in front of the fire hydrant, for everyone’s information.

The house was quiet when we went inside.

A single lamp illuminated the living room, and the same yellow light trickled out from the kitchen.

The only change was a small table that had been set near that Brady Bunch-style fireplace.

(Did they even have a fireplace in the Brady Bunch?

Why do I remember an episode about Alice getting stuck in the chimney?) Bobby stared at the table for a long second.

And then he put his hand at the small of my back and led me downstairs.

We showered. We got into our PJs. I climbed into bed, and Bobby turned off the lights.

The sheets rustled, and the mattress dipped, and then his warm arm brushed mine.

His breathing slowed, but it wasn’t the slowness of sleep.

He moved around a little more, and I heard him putting in his earphones.

There wasn’t much in the world Bobby loved more than music—except maybe surfing, writing parking tickets, exercise, and (I hoped) me.

I wasn’t sure he’d listened to his music since his mom had died, not even once.

I lay there next to him as he listened. He relaxed by degrees next to me.

And then, to my surprise, he pulled out his earbuds and set them on the nightstand.

The back of his hand pressed against mine, and after a second, I realized it was a question.

A Bobby Mai question. I looped my pinky around his and tugged.

“I want to,” he said as if we were in the middle of a conversation (which, for anyone who’s dated Bobby Mai, we pretty much were). “But it’s like that part of my brain got turned off.”

It took me a second. Okay, it took me a couple of seconds. (Don’t judge; I’d had a long day.)

“Oh. Oh! Bobby, it doesn’t matter. I don’t care about that.”

“But I want to. Because I almost lost you today, and I want you to know how much I love you.”

Propping myself up one elbow, I got a better look at him. He was mostly shadows in the dark room, but I could follow the shape of him. I found his hand again and brought it to my lips and kissed his knuckles.

“I know you love me,” I said, and to my surprise, it was difficult to say the words. Not because I didn’t believe them, but because a wave of mixed emotions tightened my throat. “I know, Bobby. You don’t have to worry about that.”

His hand tightened around mine. “I know that’s important. I heard what you said to me. Expressing that stuff. Validation.”

“Yeah, well, let’s not put too much stock in that because I definitely fall into the category of too needy.

I don’t need you to do anything you don’t want to do, Bobby.

I just don’t want to let you down. I don’t want you to feel like—” I was glad for the dark because my face was hot.

“I don’t want you to feel like I failed you. ”

He sat up. He cupped the back of my head and kissed me.

It wasn’t that kind of kiss. (Ladies and gents, stop revving your engines.) But it was so vulnerable. So unguarded. And in its own way, that made it more intimate than the adults-only-step-behind-this-beaded-curtain variety of kisses.

“I love you,” I said when he broke away.

“I love you too.”

“Lie down and go to sleep.”

He laughed quietly, but he lay down, and so did I.

And then, in a way that had become so familiar, he rolled onto his side, and one strong arm pulled my back to his chest. He kissed my neck the way he so often did. I thought I could feel his heartbeat.

And that’s how I fell asleep.