Page 27 of The Harborer
“You sound like an Uber driver instead of a deputy sheriff.” She laughed, a beautiful, musical sound that warmed him all over. Helovedhearing her laugh. More and more often, he found himself trying to amuse her just so he could hear that melodious lilt and knowhewas the one responsible for bringing her that bright moment.
Something was seriously wrong with him.
Chapter 10
Genie on the Loose
When they arrived atthe house Amy shared with Micky, the place was dark and Micky’s truck wasn’t in the driveway.
Amy tensed beside Shane. “I guess Mick hasn’t made it home yet.”
Shane unclipped his seat belt. “Is it possible he parked in the garage and crashed?”
“No, my Explorer’s parked in there. His pickup won’t even fit.” She let out a defeated sigh that made him want to dosomethingto make her feel better. When she turned to him, she gave him that opportunity. “Would you mind coming inside with me just in case …” She trailed off, never finishing the thought.
“Yeah, of course. I was planning on it anyway. Don’t think you ever need to ask, Amy.”If you were mine …
She gave him a wan smile, and he followed her into the house. She turned on lights, and much as he’d donein her office, he looked around and took it in. Unlike her business, though, this interior looked like someplace that belonged to a single guy. It didn’t have those unique touches that normally signaled a woman lived there.
“How about you walk me through?” he offered. “That way we can be sure everything is the way you left it.”
The living room was a clutter of boxes and the same broken-down furniture Shane had seen the last time he’d been in Micky’s house, which had been before Amy moved in. The coffee table held stacks of automotive magazines, and on one of the side tables, he spotted a saucer that doubled as an ashtray. Except neither Micky nor Amy smoked … cigarettes. Tucked behind the same table was a glass object that was either a sculpture of a microscope or a bong.
As she led him through the messy two-bedroom bungalow, he tried not to focus on anything that could be embarrassing for her, but truly, he saw very little that looked as though it belonged to her anyway.
“Does everything look like you left it?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Near as I can tell, though as messy as it is, I’m not sure I’d know the difference. With the store, it’s easy to tell because that’s all me. I’ve organized everything there in a specific way. I gave up trying to keep this place orderly a long time ago.”
He couldn’t corral his curiosity. “I see mostly Micky’s stuff here. Do you keep yours somewhere else?”
“Yes. Most of my things are in storage in a loft above the coffee shop. Micky didn’t want me to move it in because he wasn’t sure our living together was going to work out. After a while, I got used to the way it was and didn’t bother hauling my stuff over. Too much work.” As if she’d read his mind, she added, “Any drug paraphernalia you see belongs to him, not me.”
Weed was legal in Colorado, and it didn’t surprise him that Micky indulged. He felt an odd unfurling of relief that Amy didn’t.
“Does Micky do a lot of, uh, drug-related stuff?”
She shook her head. “To my knowledge, nothing more than marijuana.”
Could Micky’s behavioral change be the result of cannabis-induced psychosis? Shane filed the question away to be examined later. “So when you moved in, wereyouthinking of this as a temporary arrangement?”
“I don’t know what I thought, but it’s not like I have that many possessions to begin with.”
She beckoned him into the kitchen, which was at the end of a hallway. The decor didn’t change. There was absolutely no trace of Amy anywhere.
Curiosity hijacked his tongue. “How long have you lived here?”
Turning on the harsh fluorescents in the kitchen’s ceiling, she headed for the fridge, opened it, and peered inside. “Seven or eight months now. The guy who owned the bungalow where I was living decided to sell, and I wasn’t having any luck finding anything else, so when Micky suggested I move in here, I agreed.” She plucked out a beer bottle and held it up. “Beer?”
“No, thanks.”
“Water? Soda? Coffee? Whiskey?”
Amy’s leaning toward customer service was ingrained. She so earnestly tried to please, and he tried not to grin. “I’ll take a glass of milk, if you have any.”
“Yep, I think I can do that. Have a seat.” She motioned for him to sit at a battered round wooden table with mismatched chairs. None of the furnishings were like her shop. There, things might not match, but they were in good shape, and they seemed to go together despite their differences—as though she had deliberately planned it that way, carefully curating every piece. The combinations worked and gave the place a light, whimsical vibe that mirrored her personality. It was one of the reasons he loved going there.
She put the beer bottle back in the fridge and plucked out a carton of milk instead. “Two percent okay?”
