Page 213 of Romeo

I actually managed a weak laugh. “He was scary. I’ve never seen Frank like that.”

“Good.”

Some of the pressure in my chest eased with the sound of Jasper’s voice.

“Do you know who he is?” Jasper asked.

“No. Frank didn’t recognize him either. He said he wasn’t local, or at least not anyone he’d seen around.”

“What did he look like?”

“Jasper, Frank handled it.”

“I know, baby. Humor me.”

There it was again—Jasper asking instead of ordering, even though I could hear exactly how badly he wanted the information. I sighed and tried to picture the man without concentrating on his hand around my wrist.

“Maybe thirty or thirty-five. Brown hair, kind of shaggy. He needed a haircut. Scruffy beard. About six feet, maybe.”

“Anything else? Tattoos? Scars?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“What was he driving?”

I frowned. “An old, dark blue pickup. Eighties maybe. It had rust around the wheel wells.”

“Plate?”

“No. I was trying to get away from him, Jasper.”

“Fair enough.”

I heard movement on his end, like he’d started pacing.

“And before you worry yourself sick, Frank scared the hell out of him. He practically ran to his truck. I don’t think he’s coming back.”

I hesitated; there was something I hadn’t told him yet and I wasn’t entirely sure if I should.

“He had a gun.”

The silence on the other end stretched long enough to make my stomach tighten.

“What the fuck do you mean, he had a gun?”

“It was tucked into the back of his jeans. I didn’t see it until he turned around to leave. I don’t think Frank saw it.”

“Jesus Christ, Fiona.”

“He never pulled it. He didn’t even reach for it.”

“That is not nearly as comforting as you think it is.”

“Frank was there.”

“Eventually.”

The single word landed harder than anything else he’d said.