Page 65 of The Pocket Pair

Grinning, she points to the door. “Then, load up the truck, Muscle. If you’re quick enough, I’ll buy you dinner.”

“And if I’m slow?”

“I’ll still buy you dinner. But I get to choose the place.”

“How about if I’m quick enough you make me dinner.”

I really, really like Val in my kitchen. We’ve had opposite schedules the last few days, which has been highly disappointing. But when she’s cooking, I can watch her without feeling guilty or obvious about it. Plus, I’ve been existing on frozen dinners for years. Home cooked food of any kind is a luxury.

Meals home-cooked by Val? They’re better than any exclusive dining experience.

“Deal,” Val days. “Now, mush, Muscle. Mush!”

I start for the door with the box, then realize all her paintings—which I’ve been dying to see—are wrapped up in something like butcher paper. “Aw, you already packed up your paintings.”

Val brushes past me, her fingertips skating over my forearm and making my stomach dip. “Maybe, if you’re a good boy, I’ll let you take a peek later.”

I swallow—HARD—and I swear, I can almost hear Mari cackling from inside the house.

* * *

All in all, it only takes an hour or so to pack up and get the entirety of Val’s studio over to Mr. Silver’s place. The light’s just starting to fade, taking any warmth from the sun with it. I’m not sure which of us is more surprised that Mr. Silver’s house is in the new section of town, a brick home like every other home in a planned community.

“Huh,” she says.

I turn off the engine and stare at the house numbers by the door. “Planned community living is not what I would picture for your uptight, fancy pants boss.”

“Same. I would have guessed he lives in some kind of modern monstrosity. A glass and metal loft where every piece of furniture looks like it could double as a torture device.”

“Or maybe a mid-century modern place,” I suggest.

Val giggles. “Instead, we have the ’burbs. There’s even a basketball hoop!”

That there is. As I’m peering out at it, the garage door opens. And like something out of a horror movie, Mr. Silver stands there, backlit and unmoving as the door rises.

“Does that man terrify you as much as he terrifies me?” I ask.

“Don’t worry Chev, I’ll protect you from the big, mean art gallery owner.” She pats my knee and hops out of my truck.

I wait for a beat, climbing out of my truck slowly. By the time I do, three other figures have joined Val and Mr. Silver in the garage. Three teen boys, I realize as I get closer. That’s … also unexpected. Two are white, tall and lanky with shaggy brown hair, and the third is Black and a little shorter than Mr. Silver.

Mr. Silver is making introductions as I reach them. The taller boys I already know, and not in the way you want to know a cop when you’re a teenager. They duck their heads a little when they see me.

“This is Valentina,” Mr. Silver says.

All three boys shake Val’s hand, meeting her eyes and saying, “Nice to meet you, ma’am.” And not in the mumbly teenage boy way, but with actual whole syllables. The picture of politeness.

Not what I remember from my other encounter with the two boys.

Val grins. “No ma’ams. Please. Just Val.”

“Yes, ma’am—I mean, Val,” the shortest one says. His grip is strong as he shakes my hand. “I’m John.”

“Good to meet you, John. I’m Chevy—Deputy Boyd, if we’re being formal. And you are?”

I raise my brows at the other two, who are hanging back. They look up in surprise, then exchange a glance. The last time I saw them, they had cans of spray paint in hand and I was putting them in the back of my squad car. They were also part of the crew that first started stuffing things into Mrs. Fleming's cannons. But not anymore. I borrowed doorbell cam footage from a neighbor and these two definitely weren’t there.

The first boy shakes my hand fast, darting back like he expects me to yell, “Gotcha!” and pull out my cuffs. “Bryan,” he mumbles. “Good to … meet you.”

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