Page 62 of Her Wicker Guardian

“You are a lawyer.”

“I’m a divorce lawyer. I can tell you exactly what happens when somebody hides marital assets. Federal agencies and constitutional rights are a different neighborhood.”

Tom looks at her. “So what do we do?”

Blair wipes crumbs off her lap. “If we get anywhere close to that point, I find somebody who works in that neighborhood.”

Janet taps her pen against the notebook. “Before we need them.”

Blair nods. “Right, Janet, before we need them.”

Locke looks in the direction of the road. “And now?”

“Now,” Blair says, “we don’t give strangers more access to you than you want them to have, and we don’t borrow trouble.”

It isn’t much of a plan, but nobody at the table has a better one.

By the time the sandwiches are gone, we still don’t have an answer, but we do have a plan. Blair will spend Tuesday figuring out who we contact if the reaction goes badly, without contacting anyone yet. Shannon will think about a few trustworthy people in town. Tom will keep helping with the bear.

Tomorrow night, Locke gets to decide who he wants to meet first.

Locke listens to the summary. “Why tomorrow?”

A collective groan moves around the table.

For the first time all evening, he looks pleased with himself.

Blair points at Shannon. “You did that.”

“Probably.”

The laughter takes some of the weight out of the conversation, but it doesn’t solve anything. We circle the same questions a little longer without finding answers that feel any better.

By nine, the meeting has broken apart without a grand solution. Maybe that’s what makes it feel real. Locke wants the world. We’re trying to help him reach it without pretending we can make the world behave.

The cars leave one by one. Tom shuts the trailer gate and tells Locke he’ll come by after work tomorrow if the bear still needs him. Locke says he may finish before then, which makes Tom laugh. Shannon takes her husband by the arm and steers him toward the truck before he and Locke can find something else to build.

After they leave, the yard settles.

Locke walks once around the unfinished bear, checks a crossing near one shoulder, and presses it into place with his thumb.

“You’re still working?”

“I am looking.”

“That’s what workaholics say.”

He glances toward me. “Workaholic.”

“No. Absolutely not. You have enough vocabulary.”

“I want more.”

“I’ve noticed.”

My phone has been quiet for almost two hours. That should feel good. Instead, some part of me is listening for it.

Locke notices where I’m looking. “Phone?”