Page 135 of Cross & Crown

Kelly whistled and shook his head, putting the car in

drive. “You’re going to be in so much trouble,” he sang.

“It’ll be fine. He won’t know if you don’t tell him.”

“Fat chance.”

“I just need to get the accent down.”

Kelly spent most of the drive critiquing Julian’s imitation

of Nick’s accent. He’d heard some Boston accents that were

damn near unrecognizable. Others, like Nick’s, were softer or

had faded due to being away from home for so long. Nick’s

grew heavier when he was drunk or ranting about something,

usually baseball but also anything that required the word

“fuckers” said with it.

Sometimes Kelly tried to rile him just to hear the original

accent, but Nick was usually unflappable. He had to resort to

saying “Go Yankees” to really get Nick worked up.

“You might get by with that one,” Kelly advised after

Julian’s last attempt. “Just . . . don’t say much. And don’t

use Nick’s name; they all know him around here, and you

definitely don’t pass as a six-foot-one redhead.”

When they reached the bookstore, Kelly parked on the

street, trusting the police plates on Nick’s vehicle to keep him from getting towed. Glass still littered the sidewalk, although it had mostly been swept into a pile. The shattered windows

were boarded with plywood. Police tape sealed off the door,

with a red tag attached near the doorknob that warned

whoever entered about chain of custody. They were supposed

to sign the little tag.

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“Can you do his signature?” Julian asked. “There’s no one

here to see it isn’t him.”

Kelly grudgingly signed Nick’s name on the red slip.

“You’re taking all the blame for this,” he told Julian. “And I’m telling him you stole that badge.”

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