“Maybe. Maybe not.” I shrug. “You said you didn't mind—remember? And it's worth it. I promise.”
He shrugs. I can tell he's down, and I wish so much that I could help more. We're almost there when he says, “Change of subject.”
“Okay.” I wait a beat and he blows his breath out of puffed cheeks.
“Suri likes me, doesn't she?”
His question throws me off so much, I actually cough. It's everything I can do to keep my eyes from widening. “You think so?” I ask neutrally.
“C'mon, Liz. Shoot straight with me.”
She does like him. I’m ninety-nine percent sure.
“Fine. Then yes. I think maybe.” I'm breaking the girl code by telling him, but Cross is as good a friend to me as Suri is, and he's got enough drama in his life at the moment without having to wonder about that.
Cross sighs. He looks out the window, at the vines, and I can tell he's not going to say anymore right now.
We're on the last stretch of the dusty little road to Hunter's octagonal home, and I'm getting nervous. Nervous about taking Cross back here to the site of his accident, and nervous about coming here myself. But Cross wanted to come with me. In fact, he insisted.
I'm quiet as we pass the spot to the right of the road where the grass is black and frayed. Cross lets out a deep breath, and press my right arm into his left.
“You remember it, don't you?” he asks after a moment.
I nod, and he does something funny with his mouth—a thing he does when he's trying to push something down instead of show his feelings.
For the next fourth of a mile, I try to think of something soothing to say, and when I can't, I wrap my right hand around his left one, not threading our fingers together but enveloping his hand with mine. He leans his head a little my way on his head rest and closes his eyes.
I'm worried he's asleep as we pull into the driveway, but when I park and touch him lightly on the knee, he looks right at me.
“Wish me luck.” I force a smile.
“Good luck. And, Lizzy—thank you.”
“You're welcome.” I hug his neck, and out I go.
The belly bats are back in full flock as I walk to the front door. I've tried to get in touch with Hunter six times in the last twenty-four hours, and each time he's hit the 'ignore' button on his phone. I don't even know for sure he's here, although I did hear he was released after being questioned in Sarabelle's murder, and I know that he prefers his Napa place to Vegas.
I knock once, then twice, then three times before I try the handle. As my fist closes around it, it's jerked open from the inside, and I'm thrown off-balance. I bump into Hunter's beautiful bare chest.
The second we make contact, he shoves me off him. His eyes widen as he sees my face. “Libby.”
I nod, and my eyes rake down his body. He's shirtless in black gym shorts, and his bare chest is every bit as delicious as I remember. I pull my eyes up to his face, steamrolled by another wave of emotion as I think of all he's been through in the last day.
“Hunter, hi.” I swallow, because suddenly my throat is dry and tight. “I tried to call you.”
“I know.” He looks put out, but now that we're face to face, I'm not nervous at all. I want him so much, and I'm so worried for him, I just can't be.
“How are you? I heard that you were officially questioned in Sarabelle’s disappearance.”
I search his eyes for some sign of how he's doing, but they're carefully blank. “That's kind of you, but I'm still standing.”
I can tell he's trying to sound strong, but for just a second as he says 'that's kind of you', his eyes look lost.
“I miss you,” I say softly, which is what I feel the strongest. His brows draw together, just a little, and for a second I think he's going to hold out his arms and say he misses me, too. Instead he rearranges his mouth and folds his arms across his chest. “What can I do for you, Libby?”
I’m silent for too long—stung that this is the reception that I get. His lips tighten. “I said I would call you if I could, Libby. I haven’t had the time.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on.” I lower my voice, stepping closer, and Hunter retreats, taking a step backward into his boxy foyer. “You didn't hurt Sarabelle, and I don't get why you haven't told the FBI what's really going on.”
“What’s really going on?” he asks flatly.
I shake my head. “I thought you had people investigating. Your father, too.” All of a sudden, my eyes are swimming with tears. I try my best to blink them back.
I look at the floor, because there's nothing emotional about the floor, and that's when I see Hunter's ankle. There's a metal band around it.
I cover my mouth. “Oh my God! You have a tracker.”
He scowls, shuffling his foot a little bit behind him, and hot tears start to trickle down my cheeks.
He reaches to catch them, then drops his arm, like touching me would violate some rule. “Libby, please don't cry for me.”
I throw my arms around him. “Hunter—how?”
He folds his arms around my back and whispers into my hair. “I'm the only lead they have.”
I squeeze him harder, like the strength of my hug can fix this mess. “Tell them about Priscilla and Michael Lockwood, and their connection to Governor Carlson. Tell them what you know. I don't know the whole story, but I know there is one. I know your father doesn't have bad information.”
I feel him shake his head as my cheek is mashed against his chest. “You don't understand.”
I pull away and look into his sad green eyes. “So make me understand. I'm tired of being in the dark.”
Now he drops his arms off me and steps back, away from the light that streams through the windows of the door and into the darkness of the foyer. His eyes search my face as he brings his lower lip between his teeth. “Libby...some of what they have against me is true.”
“What do you mean?”
“It wasn't Sarabelle,” he says. “It's something else. You don't need to know the story, Libby.” But I do. My mind is racing. I remember what his father said. “Let me warn you, you may have to go farther than I did for you.”
“Did you do something bad when you were younger?”
His face hardens, and he looks out over my shoulder. I pull the door shut behind me and step forward to grab his hand. I pull him into the hall where Cross punched the wall that night what feels like two lifetimes ago. Looking up into his eyes, I can't believe the guilt I see.