Page 39 of The Space Between
He nods. “Everything good?”
I shake my head, and he leans back on his elbows and stares at the clouds as he says, “You think this town’s safe for her?”
“Nope.” I retort. “Not sure anywhere is though. With a man like that.”
“Yeah. But you want her to stay anyway.” I feel him looking at my profile, but I stare straight ahead and don’t answer.
It wasn’t actually a question. He knows it and I know it.
Of course, I want her to stay. But I also want herto want to stay.
And right now, I can’t give her a single fucking reason to.
He sighs and we stare at the water.
Midafternoon,I drive into town.
Not to the sheriff’s office. Not to the bar. Just to the shitty public library with the flickering fluorescent lights and the internet that crashes every twenty minutes.
Logging into a public computer, I start searching.
I’m not looking for anything fancy. I don’t want to search something that could flag a trace. I’m just… digging.
I start with his name. She told it to me the night he showed up.
Tyler Vaughn.
It’s too common to be helpful. Nothing comes up. Nothing incriminating. So, I pair it with her name. With the county she used to live in. With arrest records and civil court filings and news articles. I finally find a report from two years ago—a disturbance at a high society fundraiser. His name’s there. No charges. Just a warning issued for “escalated behavior during a verbal dispute.”
I keep digging. There’s a real estate license linked to his name. A business entity registered in Austin. His phone number’s listed in a cached contact form on a company website that hasn’t been updated in nine months.
Bingo. Got you, mother fucker.
I write it all down. Then, I log off and drive home.
It’spast seven when I hear her knock on my front door. It’s soft, hesitant, like she’s not sure I’ll open the door.
I do.
“Hey,” she says.
I grunt.
She shifts on her feet. “I was thinking… if you’re going to be watching out anyway, I could—maybe—cook?”
I blink, not saying anything.
She shrugs. “I just… I don’t like eating alone.”
I step back and she walks in.
She doesn’t askif I’m hungry. She doesn’t chatter while she cooks. She just moves around my kitchen like she knows the rhythm of the place already. A pan sizzles. The scent of garlic and oil fill the room. Her fingers tremble once when she drops a spoon, but she doesn’t say anything.
Neither do I.
When she sets the plates down, I gesture for her to sit across from me.
We eat in silence.
