Page 53 of Chasing the Other Woman

I route volunteers around washed-out county roads. I match missing-person check-ins against Petra’s wall of sticky notes. I talk Deputy Callahan through a better staging route for the north search grid. I send three linemen to the wrong side of town and catch my mistake before they waste more than five minutes, which means I’m either brilliant or exhausted enough to need adult supervision.

Despite all the chaos, the town is slowly getting back on its feet. Windows downtown aren't magically fixed, but they're boarded up so rain doesn't wash out what remains of the insides of the stores. Some areas have restored power. Communications aren't fixed, but people are finding their way around.

It should feel good.

It does feel good.

It feels like life should with the exception of a broken heart and no real way to fix it yet, if ever.

Tom sits on the curb near the SAM rig with a tablet balanced on his knees, moving little colored pins across the town map. He’s been at it for over an hour, quiet and intense, one sneaker tapping against the asphalt in a steady rhythm.

I crouch beside him. My knees object. Loudly.

“You need water?” I ask.

He doesn’t look away from the screen. “I drank seven ounces twenty-six minutes ago.”

"That's good," I say, not remarking on the specificity of it because that's Tom's superpower. I suspect that Jimmy Olsen must have stopped remarking on Superman's ability to lift cars off people, too.

“The red pins are blocked roads. Yellow is caution. Blue is confirmed safe access.” He zooms in with two fingers. “The map app is wrong about Mesquite. It says open. It isn’t.”

“Mesquite floods if somebody spits too close to the ditch.”

Tom nods, accepting this as useful hydrological data. “You sounded like Brooks just then."

My fingers tighten around the clipboard.

I glance toward the street before I can stop myself. Brooks is across the way, helping Hershel unload plywood from the back of a truck. His hair is a mess. His jaw is bruised from Tony’s punch. He moves carefully, protecting his injured arm, but he keeps working anyway.

As if he feels me look, his head lifts.

His eyes find me immediately.

Not wandering. Not eventually.

Immediately.

I look away first because apparently I enjoy being a coward in new and creative ways.

Tom moves another pin. “He does that a lot.”

“Helps out?”

“Looks for you.”

For a second, I think I've misunderstood him.

“What?”

Tom taps the tablet. “Brooks. When he enters a room, he looks for you first. If somebody says your name, he turns his head. If you leave, he notices. Yesterday, when you went behind the bar, he watched until you came out again. When the deputy asked if you were going to the north side, Brooks stopped talking to Hershel.”

My mouth goes dry.

Tom continues, calm as a weather radio. “He tracks you like radar.”

I almost laugh, but it gets caught somewhere behind my breastbone. “That sounds intense.”

“It’s just a pattern.” He finally looks at me. “People miss obvious patterns when they don't pay attention."