Page 57 of By the Book
“Not really,” Bobby said. “But I enjoy being outdoors.”
“You’re going to love it,” my dad said again. “And the surfing in New Hampshire is some of the best on the East Coast. When are you going to come out?”
“Remember how I asked everyone to have some chill?” I said. “I need a solid year of entrapping Bobby so he can’t run away before I take him to the compound.”
Bobby squeezed my hand, but he spoke to my parents. “I’d love to visit. Thank you for inviting me.”
“He’s so polite,” my mom said. “You picked a good one.”
“You should hear him when he wants me to vacuum. You know he thinks people should vacuumunderthings. And it’s not like anyone can see down there.”
“Have you ever thought about doing some consulting?” my dad asked.
“Consulting?” Bobby said.
“You know, helping writers with the realities of law enforcement. I’m sure you help Dash all the time.”
“If Dash asks, I’m always happy to help.”
“Has he told you anything about his current project?” my mom asked drily. “Maybe you can give us the inside scoop.”
“Dash is private about his work,” Bobby said, and although he was smiling, his tone didn’t leave any room for misunderstanding. “It’s important to me to respect that.”
“I’d love to pick your brain sometime,” my dad said. “Things are always changing, you know? And nothing beats firsthand experience.”
“I’m not sure how much help I’d be,” Bobby said. “Hastings Rock is a small town, and we don’t get much excitement. But I’m always happy to chat.”
“Don’t get much excitement?” my mom said. “Just more murders per capita than St. Louis.”
“And I’d pay you, Bobby,” my dad said. “I believe people should be compensated for their expertise.”
“That’s not necessary—” Bobby tried.
“No, no, I insist.”
“Dad, he’d be happy to help,” I said.
“And there are some other writers I could put you in contact with. Friends, you know?” My dad took a drink of his old fashioned and said, “If you ever wanted to turn it into a business, it could be a nice side hustle. A website. Weekly articles. A podcast, speaking engagements, maybe even books—I’m talking nonfiction. Think about this: a week-long training conference for writers. Law enforcement boot camp. You don’t realize how valuable your experience is.”
“Thank you,” Bobby said. “Let me think about that.”
“That’s nice, Dad, but Bobby already works a lot as it is. The sheriff’s office is understaffed, you know? And the whole reason he moved here was to surf, so I want him to have time to take advantage of that.”
“I’m talking about down the road,” my dad said. “When you move home.”
Bobby paused, his beer halfway to his mouth.
I opened my mouth, closed it again, and then opened it and said, “I’m not moving home.”
“Not right now, I know.”
My mom sat back in her chair. Her eyes glittered as she watched me.
“No, Dad,” I said, trying to keep my voice easy. “I’m not moving back, well, ever. At least, I’m not planning on it. I’m happy here. I’ve got Hemlock House. Bobby’s career is here.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” my dad said. “He’ll have plenty of opportunities.” My dad waited a moment and added, as thoughI might not understand, “I’m talking about later. After you’re married, when you’re ready to start having kids.”
The only thing I could think to say was “What?”
