Page 125

Ben grins. “I like him.”

“Give it time.”

Locke turns his head toward me. “Rachel.”

Two syllables, mildly offended, with enough amusement in his voice to ruin the effect.

“Fine. Ben may continue to like you if he so chooses.”

Mrs. Calhoun laughs from the next aisle while Locke goes back to comparing the drills with Ben.

I reach into my purse for my phone and find the pocket empty. I must have left it in the cup holder. “I need to run out to the car,” I tell Locke. “I’ll be right back.”

He glances over. “Okay.” Then he turns back to Ben.

That’s it. No Rachel back? No question about how long I’ll be gone. By the time I reach the front door, he’s already asking Ben something about battery systems.

I pause with my hand on the door for half a second. A week ago, he would have noticed me leaving before I got halfway across the room. Today the conversation continues without me.

Outside, I cross the lot, retrieve my phone from the cup holder, and head back inside. When I return, Locke doesn’t notice me immediately. He’s leaning over the counter with Ben, both of them studying a battery charger while Ben explains something with far too much enthusiasm.

Being ignored in favor of a battery charger is doing things to me.

I occupy myself with a display of caulk until my brain becomes respectable again.

By the time we leave, Locke has a photo on his phone of the tool list Ben wrote for him, three firm opinions about battery systems, and an invitation from Ben to come back when the new woodworking shipment arrives Tuesday.

Ben follows us toward the door but hesitates before we leave. “Hey, Locke?”

He turns. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry I ran that day.”

The apology seems to surprise Locke. He studies Ben for a moment before answering. “You were afraid.”

“Yeah.”

“I’d have been afraid if I saw something I thought was impossible, especially if it was holding an axe.”

Ben’s shoulders loosen. “I know now you weren’t going to hurt me.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I know.”

Locke nods once, and that is enough. Ben holds the door for us as we leave.

Outside, Hollis Springs is doing its best impression of a town pretending nothing unusual is happening.

It isn’t convincing.

A woman coming out of the pharmacy sees Locke and nearly walks into a parking meter. Two men outside the bank stop talking. Across the street, somebody raises a phone, sees Locke notice, then seems to think better of it and lowers the phone again.

But nobody rushes us. Nobody screams.

A man I vaguely recognize from the Piggly Wiggly lifts two fingers in greeting. “Afternoon, Rachel. Afternoon, Locke.”

“Afternoon,” Locke answers easily.