Page 41 of The Evening Wolves

“I know I’ve been...off.”

“I don’t think—”

“So, I’m sorry. For, you know, losing it. A little bit.”

It was easier to focus on turning into the strip mall than look at Emery’s face.

“John, you’ve been through a tremendous amount of upheaval in the last few days. You were arrested and charged with a terrible crime. You discovered someone has framed you and, somehow, managed to outmaneuver your father and your other allies in local government. You stumbled onto a shooting last night. You’re exhausted, and your world has been turned upside down, and you still managed to make Colt pancakes this morning and get him to smile about that ridiculous game you both play. I’m not sure what you consider ‘losing it a little bit,’ but from what I see, you’re holding things together better than anyone has a right to expect.”

John-Henry eased the Mustang into a parking stall. He stared out at the stuccoed strip mall: the Foot Locker retail outlet (closed), Masouda’s Missouri Mafrum, and a U-Haul dealership housed in what appeared to have been, at one time, a garden center. Masouda’s had a wall of windows where tasseled curtains hung. A neon sign glowed OPEN.

“Right. That’s kind of you.” He swallowed. “Thank you.”

“I’m not being kind—”

“But the last few days, that’s not how the chief of police should act. It’s not how your husband should act.”

It’s not, he thought—and the thought swam in a blizzard of other thoughts, like he was shaking a snow globe—how John-Henry Somerset was supposed to act.

“John, what in the world—”

“Nothing.” He opened the door and got out. “I don’t know. Never mind.”

He thought Emery might have said more, but he shut the door first.

By the time Emery got out of the car, John-Henry was already walking into the restaurant. A mezuzah was affixed to the jamb, which wasn’t something he saw often in this part of the world, and a wall of damp heat steamed against him. Condensation beaded on the inside of the glass, and as he watched, a too heavy drop gave in to gravity and streaked down the window. The smells of hot oil, cumin, coriander, and the bright acidity of tomatoes filled the air. Inside, the dining room was small—two booths with laminate tops chipped at the corners, a counter, and a battered door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. An illuminated sign above the counter displayed a handful of dining options, and a chalkboard menu announced the day’s sides: chershi and mseyer, whatever those were. A green-and-silver Wroxall Wildcats banner nestled among plastic-covered photos on the wall, and an unobtrusive sign announced that concealed carry was permitted in the restaurant. Behind the counter, a curtain wall allowed only a glimpse of the kitchen’s stainless steel and white tile. A bell rang overhead, and a moment later, a woman stepped behind the counter.

She was short, stocky, with graying brown hair and dark eyes. If the heat bothered her, it hadn’t kept her from wearing a Wahredua High sweatshirt and jeans. She assessed him for a moment and then, as John-Henry waited for Emery, wrapped a napkin around a set of plasticware and placed it in a tub.

The bell rang again as Emery stepped inside, and John-Henry approached the counter. The woman looked up as she continued to wrap the plasticware sets.

“Hi,” he said with a smile. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve got kind of a strange question.” He produced his phone, pulled up a photo of Vermilya that Auggie had sent him, and displayed it. “This man was in here yesterday, and I was wondering if you recognize him.”

She didn’t look at the phone. Her eyes came up to John-Henry’s face, and she asked, “Do you have a warrant?”

“Why would he—” Emery began.

But John-Henry made a small motion with one hand, and Emery cut off. He studied the woman and said, “You recognize me.”

“It’s a small town.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met.”

This time, she smiled—a small, dry expression that was gone as soon as it came. “It’s not that small.”

“Why don’t we start over? You already know me, but I’d like to introduce myself: I’m John-Henry Somerset.”

“And he’s your husband. And I’m Masouda. And you’re the chief of police.”

The words felt like bait, but John-Henry wasn’t sure what kind. His whole life, he’d been good at reading people, at easing through the shifting currents of social interactions. He thought about that smile, the fleeting one, and he went for wry. “Suspended, actually. But I get the feeling you know that.”

“Which is why I asked for a warrant.”

“He doesn’t need a warrant,” Emery said. “He’s not requiring you to turn over evidence or testify. He’s asking questions. As a private citizen.”

She made a considering noise. When she finished wrapping the next set of plasticware, she glanced at Emery, and then her gaze slid to John-Henry again.

And then John-Henry felt it—the tug, the flow, everything in him shifting as he caught the direction of the current and oriented himself. “I need help,” he said. “Actually, I’m desperate. I’m hoping you can help me.”

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