Dead Ringer

49

The growl of engines rose back into the night, and I turned back to the road just in time to see the two cars flash past the lot, the Mustang a few feet in front.

As they both slowed and circled back around, the blonde disappeared into the crowd. She returned with a wad of cash, and when Ciar pulled back up to the edge of the gravel, she handed it through the window.

"This should've been mine last week," he said, tucking it away inside.

"You didn't win last week."

"I would have."

"Yeah, well, take it up with Nero." Her eyes flicked toward me, and Ciar's followed suit. "I think it's better for everyone if you keep your girlfriend away from here, hm?"

And then she sauntered off again, leaving nothing between me and his piercing gaze.

He jerked his chin, an invitation. Get in.

"My car...." I pointed to it, shuffling back a step and trying not to think about the way he'd left me earlier without a word.

His face softened, crinkles forming beside his eyes. "Come on. We'll get the car later."

"But...." I glanced over my shoulder. I didn't trust these people.

He seemed to understand, because he snorted. "No one's gonna take that piece of crap, Maisye."

I couldn't help but grin at the familiar derision, though it was tentative. Did he really mean it? Had whatever happened outside the police station just disappeared, or was it waiting to rear its ugly head until I was trapped in his car?

My plan ran through my head like a marquee. Exonerate yourself. Get the truth out of someone who knows.

Maybe he knew, or maybe he could tell me why he believed me—even the tiniest tidbit to give me a shred of confidence in myself. I crossed behind the Mustang and settled myself into the passenger's side, sitting stiffly as he leaned over to stow the prize money in the glove compartment.

"Where does it all go?" I asked as he pulled back onto the road. "The money? I know you make a lot. That was ten grand, right? Plus whatever you got for the McLaren. Yet you work crappy shifts as a mechanic and you live in a sketchy part of town. What happens to the money?"

He didn't answer, just flipped on the turn signal and made a left. The traffic lights gave us both an eerie glow as we passed through the intersection, and then darkness fell again. With a sigh, I folded my arms across my chest. So we're back to reticent Ciar again.

"Keep your hair on," he said. "I'll tell you. Just...not here."

I eyed him, the lit-up dials on the dashboard throwing his profile into relief against the night. I absently fingered the safety pin on my seat belt, biting my lip.

Why did you walk away?

I wanted to say it. I wanted to unleash those words, let them cry out for the attention I needed, and damn my dignity. I longed to be clingy, and I longed for him to let me cling to him.

But that would just be sad.

The headlights flashed over a wooden sign, illuminating the bold letters. Mystic Lakes State Park.

I knew exactly where he was taking me, and my heart jumped. When he stopped in front of the roped-off parking area and got out, I hung back.

The blonde's parting words haunted me like the ghost of a stranger in an unfamiliar house. "I should be careful," full of irony, deliberately implying that I was the one who needed caution, not her. Did she know something about Donovan and Tilda?