Page 6 of The Murder Inn

“Why not?”

“Because it’s bad,” Nick said. I looked over and he met my eyes properly for the first time that morning, and what I saw in them was something dark and desperate. Something only barely contained. “It’s bad, OK? Worse than you could imagine.”

“It can’t be,” I said. “Because I know you, OK? I was a Boston cop for twenty years, for God’s sake. I’ve seen some stuff. And you? You’re not like that.”

Nick said nothing. He was listening to my speech, his jaw locked.

“So whatever it is, whatever you and this Dorrich guy went through together,” I continued, “it’s in the past. It’s over.”

“It’s not over. Something’s changed.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Because all these years since I’ve been home, checking in every couple of months with Dorrich and Breecher and Master has been like… my way of sniffing the wind for smoke,” Nick said.

“And now you think that because he’s not answering, it means a forest fire is coming,” I said. “Jesus, maybe the guy’s on vacation. A man can’t take a vacation?”

“None of them are answering,” Nick said.

I gripped the wheel and tried to organize my thoughts. It seemed impossible to comfort Nick without being drawn into his terrible, dark world. Without him showing me the monsters he so deeply feared. All I had to offer were vague wordsof reassurance, that he was safe, that whatever horrors he had seen weren’t going to reemerge here. That New England was about as far from Afghanistan as a person could get—both literally and metaphorically. The words seemed empty. But I said them anyway.

“There’s no forest fire coming, Nick,” I said. “I promise you.”

He shook his head. “No. There’s not. What’s coming is hellfire.”

CHAPTER FIVE

THE ONE THING Norman Driver had never been able to get right was a convincing smile he didn’t mean. As soon as the young woman opened the door to the little house across the road from his construction site, Driver knew he was giving her a pretty flimsy smile, something completely lacking in warmth, something that failed to disguise the monstrousness in his being. A crocodile grin. She was unnerved by it. People usually were. She was a pretty young thing in her late twenties just starting to play housewife, and the noise complaint, he knew, had probably come from her desire to fit into the perfect new mommy role. A good mommy made noise complaints. She called the manager. She spoke to the principal. She posted the review and comments. Calling and complaining and commenting spoke of care and vigilance, of self-respect and family pride. Driver smiled and leaned a thick forearm on the doorframe.

“Mornin’, ma’am.”

“Can I help you?” The woman swiped her bangs in a way that was supposed to communicate that she was busy—there was laundry to be done, cookies to be made, Instagram posts to be scheduled. Somewhere in the house, a tub of toys was being emptied, the sound of small, hard parts cascading and clattering.

“I’m from the site across the street,” Driver said. “I understand we may have ruffled some feathers in the neighborhood by starting early this morning.”

“And yesterday morning,” the woman said.

“Yeah,” Driver said. “We’re so sorry to have disturbed you.”

“Well—”

“Disturbed you so bad, in fact, that you brought in the law,” Driver said. He let the words hang in the air, heavy with menace. “We must have really punctured your beauty sleep for you to have done that; breezed right by us and went direct to the sheriff. Didn’t even think to just wander over the road and speak to us yourself.”

“There’s no—I mean—” The woman gave a nervous laugh. “Who’s saying I’m the one who complained?”

“Me,” Driver said. “Call me psychic.”

“Well… well, you’re wrong,” the woman said and drew in a sharp breath, trying to steel herself. “I didn’t appreciate the noise but I—I would have just gone over there and told you guys how I felt, just like you said.”

“Good.” Driver grinned. “Good. Because going to the law like that without even giving us a warning, without even asking for an explanation… It’s almost aggressive.”

“Right.” The woman nodded.

“And when people are openly aggressive with me”—Driver shrugged—“I tend to get aggressive back. It’s just in my nature.”

A fat toddler rounded the corner to the tiled living room beyond and paused in the hallway. The child was long-lashed, wild-haired, and full-lipped in a way that made it completely androgenous. The T-shirt stretching taut over its belly readFeelin’ cute, might throw a tantrum later.

“Hey, little buddy,” Driver said.

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