Page 43 of Only You and Me

I search around for a few seconds, and I find her recycling can in a small closet. As I reach over the trash can to place the plastic jug in the recycling, a take-out container in the trash catches my eye. I’d recognize the weird yellow Styrofoam container anywhere. Pat’s Diner is the only place in town that has this color.

Ever the detective, I open the container to check for any food remnants inside. When I’ve found what I’m looking for, I laugh to myself and close the closet before grabbing Trina’s glass and my plate and heading back outside.

I spend the next five minutes eating my eggs and acting like they’re the best things I’ve ever had in my mouth. I’m talking over the top moaning, compliments galore, and the icing on the cake—I pick up my plate and lick it when all the eggs are gone.

“Okay. You don’t have to be an asshole about it,” Trina laughs. She pins me with narrowed eyes, but there’s no disdain in them.

“What?” I feign confusion.

“I know you must have found the takeout container. I had to, though.”

“Had to? Really?” Now I’m the one grinning.

“Yes, really. I tried for six days in a row to make damn scrambled eggs so I could prove to you I can, and I either burn them, they’re full of shells, or they just taste plain horrible. I needed a win.”

I’m secretly pleased that she’s tried so hard to make them.

I chuckle. “Well, don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s the thought that counts.” I reach across and pat her on the hand, and when she doesn’t flinch or pull away, I keep my hand there, wanting a little more time touching her.

Trina laughs as well and, after a few seconds, looks down at our hands. I take that as my cue to remove mine before I ruin our breakfast, and I reluctantly do so.

A few minutes later, we’ve cleaned up from breakfast and sit at her dining room table, my tablet in front of us.

Trina has been sending me screenshots of her text messages from her unknown pursuer every day. Some days there is one, professing his feelings for her. About every three to four days, there are up to five or six, several filled with rage or sexually suggestive, followed by an apology.

“We’ve got the tracking on the numbers, and they’ve all been burner phones so far. Nothing traceable back to him. And I’ve talked to a few of my buddies from the Meadow Creek Police Department about John Lemond, the cop who came up to you at the Valentine’s Fundraiser.” I rake my hand through my wavy hair in frustration.

“And?” Trina asks.

I sigh. “And though they think he’s an ass, there’s never been concern about him being dirty or anything of that nature. He’s been divorced twice but, unless he does something else suspicious, I don’t have justification to dig into him much further. As for the other background checks, Guy?—”

“Checks? Why plural? You only had Guy to check into.” Trina’s eyes tighten and I curse under my breath that she’s so damn observant.

“Yes. Checks, plural. Guy’s showed what we expected. The arrest when he was here and some misdemeanor stuff. No felonies and no violent offenses. Still, I’ve called around and can’t find where he is right now. I don’t like that. And… and I checked into Darren.”

“Ben! I told you to leave him out of this. It’s not him.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. He wouldn’t do that.” Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Fine. What did his background check show?”

“Nothing,” I practically whisper.

Trina cups her hand around her ear and leans closer to me. “Sorry. What was that?”

“I said nothing. He’s clean.” She sniggers in response. “I really wish you’d stay with me or someone else. Or let me stay?—”

“No. I’m not letting this person win. If I act out of fear, he’s gained ground on me and I’m not letting him do that.”

“Jesus, Trina. You may not be afraid, but I sure as hell am. Do you have any idea what it’s like trying to fall asleep at night worrying about you? Why are you being so stubborn?”

She frowns, apparently not a fan of my vulnerability or me calling her stubborn.

“I’m not being stubborn. Not about this, at least.” She looks down at the table and repeatedly runs her finger in a figure-eight pattern on the surface of the wood. “I can’t give him control over what I do. I’m aware you all tease me, saying I’m grumpy and too disciplined and shit. But I need to know I’m in control of my life and I can’t give up how I live because of him.” She glances back up at me now. “It’ll be fine. You’re worrying for nothing.” She rubs her hand over her eyes repeatedly. When she drops her hand and looks at me again, she’s clearly ready for a subject change. “Now, back to the investigation. So, what’s next?”

I stare at her for several long seconds, frustrated as hell but not wanting her to feel like she doesn’t have control. I know that’s a coping mechanism she developed from how she grew up.

“Well, I’ll keep unofficial tabs on the cop from Meadow Creek. Something doesn’t sit right with me about him. And I’m still working on hunting down Guy. I want to make sure he hasn’t been back in town.”

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