Page 22 of Carter

“Do you ever laugh? Because if not, you should tell me. I’ll give up trying to make you,” I say.

“Don’t give up,” is his response, but it’s as dry as everything else he says.

Typical detective with no emotion. At least, most of the time. There is a lot of kindness to his voice when it matters, I just can’t tell if it’s genuine or not.

I hold back the laugh when we round the corner and he clicks the button to unlock the doors of a dark grey Dodge Ram. I get in as smoothly as I can, hoping I look like I do it every day and not like a baby deer trying to find its legs.

It’s still warm inside the cab, which I’m thankful for. He starts the truck, and heat blasts through the vents. I aim the ones on my side toward me, holding my hands in front of them in the way you do with a fire. They burn before warming up.

Neither of us says anything as he pulls off onto the road and drives. We’re stuck in traffic for a little bit, but it soon disperses and we get through.

“Not even going to pretend you don’t remember how to get to my place?”

“Would it make you happier if I did?”

I shrug. “Just feels weird that you know so much about me, and I don’t know anything about you.”

“You want my address?”

I huff a laugh, shaking my head as I turn my attention out the window.

“You hungry?” he then asks.

“I could eat.”

“Let’s grab food first. Then you can give me your address. It’ll all be normal.”

“Sure. Normal,” I mutter as the memory of why he’s here hits me.

I suddenly realize eating won’t do me any good. It’s only going to make me sick. But he’s already driving like he knows exactly where he’s going, and I don’t want to make things difficult. If I want to help Ryan, I need to do this. He suffered that night. I can suffer now.

We pull up to a diner that’s right before the freeway exit. It’s just your typical small diner that I’ve gone by enough times to know it’s there, but have never really looked at before. There are a few cars in the parking lot, and warm yellow light bleeds out through the large windows.

Detective Bennett pulls into a spot a good distance away from the other cars. If he were someone else, I’d assume he wasn’t comfortable parking this large thing around other vehicles, but something tells me this man can do anything he puts his mind to. He just has those strong, stubborn vibes. He’s worried about other people hittinghim.

As I get out of the truck, I focus really hard on not falling on my ass. Detective Bennett holds the diner door open for me, and I step inside.

“Anywhere you’d like, fellas,” the young waitress behind the counter calls out.

Sports play on the TV, and people sit at the bar and tables, eating, drinking, and chatting.

Black and white photos of the diner when it was first built hang on the wall, along with some certificates and a five-dollar bill. People still do that?

The detective then leads me to a table toward the back, away from others.

We scoot into the booth, him taking the seat that allows him to face the door. I don’t like having my back to it either, and normally I’d be sitting on that side, but there isn’t nearly as much anxiety around it as I usually have.

I feel safe with this man, I realize, just now. Maybe because he’s a cop and I’ve spotted the gun on his belt. But I don’t think it’s just that. It’s something about his personality. This man really is here to help solve the murder of my late boyfriend. I wasn’t sure at first, but after getting to know him a little better, I can feel his good intentions. He’s a protector, not in it for the money. He cares. It’s relieving—but not something I should get used to.

He won’t be around forever, so I can’t lose the skills I’ve gained in the last couple of years. But I won’t lie. Thinking of someone else watching my back, for even just ‌half an hour while I eat a meal, takes so much weight from my shoulders. It has a giddy feeling forming in my stomach, and I do my best to push it away because it’s too easy to get caught up in those feelings.

An older waitress with short grey hair and piercing blue eyes comes over with a coffee carafe to take our order, but I’ve beendaydreaming so I tell her I need a minute to decide, but ask for a water. Detective Bennett gets coffee, which she pours right away.

“If I drank coffee right now, I’d be up all night.”

“That’s the plan,” he says, pouring a tiny container of creamer into the cup. Just one. No sugar. Then takes a sip as if it isn’t hot when I can see it steaming.

“You part vampire?”