Page 48 of The Meaning Of You

I rubbed a hand along my tender jaw and gingerly rolled my shoulder, pulling a face both times. “Nothing broken.” I stretched my neck and tried not to wince. “Just my pride. Did you get a look at him?”

The man shook his head. “Not really. Light skin, dark hair, thirties maybe. You should really report it. We’ve had some dodgy characters hanging around here this summer. Cars broken into, that sort of thing. Locals are pissed.”

“Doesn’t seem much point. Neither of us got a look.” I offered my hand. “I’m Nick, by the way. Thanks for helping.”

He shook hands. “No problem. You might wanna put some ice on that jaw. Bruise is gonna be a doozy. I hope you didn’t need whatever was in that box.”

My gaze snapped back to the caravan. The door was still hooked back. The steps were lying on their side. And the box with all Davis’s writing stuff, including the laptop, was nowhere to be seen.

“Goddammit!” I kicked a cloud of dust into the air and the man patted my back.

“I guess that answers that. If you’re sure you’re okay, I’ll let you be. Don’t forget the ice.”

I watched him go, my head exploding with questions starting with,what the actual fuck was going on?

Still rubbing my jaw, I snatched the Mickey Mouse keyring from the dirt and locked the van. It wasn’t until I was almost back at the car that I remembered the police box still sitting in the passenger footwell. I ran the last few steps and tore open the door, relieved to find it untouched. Thank Christ. The guy couldn’t have had time to check.

I rounded the car and stood for a moment with the engine on and driver’s door open, the air con as low as it would go. I shook off the hypocrisy of being happy to cool my car but not my house. As I waited for the temp to drop from peel-your-skin-from-your-flesh hot down to tolerable for desert-dwelling dung beetles, I pressed gently on my jaw and winced.

The guy had a mean right hook because fuck, that hurt.

I circled my neck, and yeah, that wasn’t much better, and my head throbbed like a motherfucker. I debated the chances of being assaulted and robbed twice in two months and didn’t like the odds. Then again, the alternative seemed equally disturbing because that would mean I’d been targeted. The next questions were who and why?

The list of possibilities was short, as in non-existent. The guy had only grabbed one thing, the box. Hell of a risk to steal a random box with the owner standing right there. Why not wait until you had the place to yourself?

Then it hit me. I’d lost the laptopandthe desk calendar. What a fucking waste of a day. I slapped a hand to my forehead and immediately regretted it as pain rocketed through my jaw. “Ow, ow, ow.”

I collapsed behind the wheel and slammed the door shut, the cold air rolling like a blessing over my thirsty skin. I angled the vent until an arctic blast buffeted my face and took a last look at the caravan, my imagination taking flight.

Davis... inside... with another guy... discussing what to do about me. Davis upset about hiding what was going on, and he would’ve been. I knew that. He hated deceit—an odd thing to think, all things considered—but it only meant he must’ve felt strongly about the other guy to take that path.

The realisation pricked at my eyes and I jerked my gaze back to the windscreen.

If that’s what even happened, I reminded myself. You don’t know shit for sure.

I didn’t. But I was struggling to come up with another explanation.

I threw the car into drive and headed out, making it as far as the motorway before I realised I wasn’t heading home. I couldn’t. Not right then. Not to the townhouse we’d shared and the bed we’d slept in. Memories of a life that could’ve been a lie.

Instead, I pulled into the far-left lane and took the next off ramp leading west. I knew the name of the road and figured I could pick out his house from the video tour. Modern barn conversion he’d called it. With a bit of luck, he’d even have his name or business on the letter box.

I could’ve called, of course, but I didn’t. Because I wanted to back out if I needed to. Because I was embarrassed. Because I didn’t want him to say it wasn’t convenient, or that he wasn’t home, or refuse because I’d been an arsehole avoiding him. Because then I’d have nowhere else.

I made a quick stop at a liquor store on the way. If he was out, I’d sit on his deck and wait... and drink.

It was a plan.

Good or not remained to be seen.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Madigan

There werea ton of things I’d rather have done on a sizzling hot Saturday afternoon than run a workshop on Preservation Management of Library and Archival Assets for a university library conference. But as said university allowed me the use of its conservation studio in return for those occasional workshops, I put up and shut up.

That didn’t stop me bitching all the way home, not helped by the fact that the motorway was a nightmare and the air con in my old Toyota was on the fritz. By the time I turned into my magnolia-lined driveway, I was hot and irritable and spoiling for a fight, and the unfamiliar Audi parked in front of my house did nothing to alleviate my pissy mood. Visitors I cared about knew better than to call on me unannounced.

I pulled into the carport and trudged my way back to the Audi, only to find it empty. My hackles rose. Wandering uninvited on my property was definitely crossing the line. My gaze swept the expansive lawns, browned-off and thirsting for rain, but I saw nobody.

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