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I’m good. Cracked rib.
That’s fucked up. How’s your wife?
I like that a lot. I grin as I shoot off the next text.
She’s mine.
My phone rings in my hand before Cash can text back, and I frown.
“Mind if I take this?” I ask.
“Of course not.”
Marci looks about ready to lick her empty plate, so I dish up another pancake onto it and shift the maple syrup toward her.
“This is Jesse Taylor,” I say.
“Mr. Taylor. Sorry to call you this early in the morning, but I wanted to get ahead of the curve. My name is James Tremere, and I’m calling from thePrickly Poppy Bay Times. Do you have a minute to talk?”
I glance at Marci.
“I’m in the middle of breakfast with my wife.”
Is it bad that I don’t care whether this is about me running for sheriff? My priorities have shifted. I’m torn between sticking to the plan and following my gut.
“I’m sorry. I can call back later.”
I can’t lose Marci, and if I don’t run for sheriff, she won’t have a reason to play pretend. It’s fucked up, but it’s the only way I can keep her. And there’s the fact that I can’t let Davis become sheriff. I step around the counter.
“I can talk,” I say, and put the phone on loudspeaker.
“Great. Great. Listen, Mr. Taylor, I understand you’re running for sheriff. I’d love to interview you about your campaign and last night.”
“Last night?”
I scratch the wrinkles on my brow.
“Yeah, it’s come to our attention that you put yourself at great risk to save the citizens of Heatstroke. And your wife. It’ll make for a great article,” James says. “Small town deputy saves his wife and the town from a criminal. Okay, on second thought, that title needs work.” He gives a self-deprecatory laugh. “But we can come up with a title.”
Marci perks up at the counter and gives me an excited double thumbs up.
“I’d be happy to do a telephonic interview now.”
“That’s amazing, Mr. Taylor. I appreciate this. It’s safe to say that this is going to make waves in the county. I wouldn’t be surprised if this reaches the national level. It’s such a sweet story.”
I sit down in the recliner.
Mr. Skitters eyes me from the kitchen. He darts into the living room and jumps up onto the armchair then sits there, watching me. I lay my arm down and let him sniff my fingers, but don’t stroke him yet. He’s not ready.
“Fire away,” I say.
We chat for fifteen minutes, and after I’ve hung up the call, another one comes through, and another. Another.
Marci brings me water. She paces back and forth as she listens to the calls.
She wants me to run for sheriff, but she’ll never stay married to a cop after her past.
If I don’t run for sheriff, I can’t stay married to her.
