Seventeen
THE FIRST THING I saw when I stepped into surveillance headquarters was Robby and Taylor—with their hands in each other’s back pockets.
Before that image could burn itself too deep into my memory, I coughed.
They sprung apart at the sound, but—
Too late. Couldn’t blink away the afterimage.
“Where’s Glenn?” I asked.
“In town,” Taylor answered, just as Robby asked, “Where’s the principal?”
“I need to talk to Glenn,” I said.
Doghouse, sitting at a desk across the room, lifted the receiver of a landline and held it out to me.
I walked over, took it, dialed Glenn’s number, and mentally prepared myself to quit—right here, in front of both of my nemeses—and ignoring all the questions in my head. Would Glenn yell at me? Would Robby and Taylor gloat to see me fail? Was I forfeiting any chance at London?
My body felt as tight as a wire as I waited.
But Glenn’s phone went to voicemail.
“It’s good you’re here, anyway,” Robby said, as I hung up. “We’ve had some activity on the Stapleton property.”
I shook my head. “The shots? That was just his dad hitting bottles in the ravine.”
“No,” Robby said then. “At his place in the city.” Then Robby glanced toward the monitors. “Taylor, pull it up,” he said. All business. Like a liar.
But what she pulled up on the monitors made me take a step closer.
Then another.
“What the hell?” I said.
“Yeah.”
They were images from the cameras around Jack’s Houston house. All the first-floor windows had been spray-painted with pink hearts and the name “Jack” over and over.
I studied different footage from different angles. “Every downstairs window, huh?”
Robby nodded.
“Was it the Corgi Lady? Do we know?”
“We’re ninety-nine percent sure it was,” Robby said.
Taylor switched to footage from earlier of a woman in the act.
“That’s her? Did we get a face ID?”
Robby shook his head. “No, but she left gifts.”
“Gifts?”
“Yep. On the front porch,” Robby said. Then he added, “In gift bags.”
“What were they?”
Robby checked the texts on his phone. “According to Kelly, it was a handknitted sweater with a remarkably photorealistic image of Stapleton’s face on the front, an album of snapshots of her new litter of puppies, and a batch of nudes.”
“A batch of nudes?” I asked. “Nudes of who? Nudes of the principal?”
“Nudes of the corgi breeder.”
Jesus.
“She also left a handwritten note welcoming Jack home to Houston—and reminding him that her biological clock is ticking, and she’d really prefer him to impregnate her sometime this spring, if that works for his schedule.”
Robby handed me a tablet so I could scroll through the photos Kelly had sent.
“So,” I said, thinking out loud. “Does this mean we’re we at threat level orange?”
“I think, given the puppies and hearts, we’re still at yellow.”
“The nudes are a little menacing.”
“Point taken.”
Taylor piped up. “No threats, though. Not from her, anyway.”
“Other than…” I thought about what on earth the term for it would be. “Coerced impregnation?”
“That part’s worrisome,” Robby agreed.
“And the fact that she now knows he’s in Houston,” Taylor said.
“And knows his address,” I added.
We psychoanalyzed the Corgi Lady for a little while, trying to assess the danger she posed, and then we adjusted protocols at the Houston house. Kelly had already filed the police report and begun proceedings for a restraining order. We’d need to switch out the Range Rover for a different color and make, as well.
By the time I left HQ, it was getting dark.
I hadn’t even made it to the Stapletons’ gate when Robby shouted after me. “Hey!” he called. “Glenn’s on the phone.”
I’d forgotten about Glenn. But it was pretty late now. Connie would be up from her nap, and she’d need something in her stomach before her next round of meds.
“You know what?” I said. “I’ll call him later.”
And that’s how, without even realizing it, I decided to stay.
I WAS HALFWAY down the gravel road to the house, sweeping my eyes back and forth for any signs of cattle, when I saw Jack running—actually running—out to meet me.
He reached me without even breaking stride and enclosed me in his arms.
“Where were you?” he asked, squeezing tight. “I was worried.”
“I had to go to headquarters.”
I could feel his heart beating. It did seem a little fast.
For a second, I thought it was real.
I relaxed into it the way you do in a real moment.
But then I thought I should confirm before I enjoyed it too much. “What are you doing?” I asked, my face pressed into his shoulder and my voice muffled against his shirt.
“My parents are watching,” Jack said.
Ah.
Got it.
I hugged him back. But now only for pretend.
When he let me go at last, we walked back toward the house arm in arm—also for pretend.
“By the way, you can’t be sneaking out to the river without me in the mornings.”
“Why not?”
“If you’d read the handout, you’d know that I’m supposed to stay with you at all times.”
“I will never read the handout.”
“And what are you doing hitting golf balls into a river, anyway? You’re going to choke a dolphin.”
“They dissolve in water.”
“That’s a scam.”
“Is it too much to want an hour or two to myself?”
“Yes. It is.”
“Just sleep in and don’t worry about it.”
“I have to worry about it. It’s my job to worry about it.”
“Tell you what,” Jack said then. “I’ll stop sneaking off to the river when you tell me what that song is you’re always humming.”
“What do you mean?”
“That song you hum all the time. What’s the name of it?”
“I don’t hum a song.”
“You do.”
“I think I’d know if I were humming a song.”
“Apparently not.”
I frowned. “Do I hum a song?” I tried to remember humming a song.
“When you’re in the shower,” Jack said, like it might jog my memory. “Also, when you’re pouring your coffee, or walking. Sometimes when you brush your teeth.”
“Huh,” I said. “I’m not sure I believe you.”
Jack frowned. “You think I’m making it up?”
“I’m just saying, I think I’d notice.”
We fell quiet as we approached the house, and I thought about sticking my hand in his back pocket as a little homage to heartbreak, and my two exes, and how mean life always is.
But maybe that was crossing the line.
AFTER DINNER, I walked Jack out toward the far end of the yard, where I could brief him in private about the corgi situation.
There was a horse pen off the side of the barn with a bench where we could sit. We climbed the fence and sat side by side near the water trough as I filled Jack in on the details, out of earshot from the house.
There’s an art to telling clients about threats. A delicate balance that informs them without alarming them. Or, more accurately—alarms them just enough to get their attention, and their cooperation, and their compliance, without freaking them out.
But Jack wasn’t alarmed at all.
In fact, I had barely said the word “nudes” before he started laughing.
“Hey,” I said. “This isn’t funny.”
But Jack just leaned back and tilted his face to the stars, his shoulders shaking.
And then he leaned forward and put his face in his hands.
“I’m sorry,” he said, after a little while, wiping at his eyes. “It’s the nudes. And the notes. And the phrase…”
But he was overtaken by laughter and couldn’t finish.
“And the phrase…” he tried again.
But nope. More laughing.
“And the phrase,” he said again, louder now, as if commanding himself to get it out. “The phrase, ‘if it’s convenient for your schedule.’”
Now he collapsed forward, his whole torso shaking.
It’s surprisingly hard not to laugh when someone’s cracking up right in front of you. This is serious, I reminded myself. Stay focused. Then I said, all business, “You should probably take a look at everything.”
“Not the nudes,” he said, laughing harder. “Don’t make me look at the nudes.”
“You need to take this seriously,” I said, trying to settle him with my tone of voice.
“I’ll take the sweater,” he said, wiping his eyes. “My mom loves them.”
I shook my head. “It’s all being impounded as evidence.”
That set him off again. He doubled over, gasping for breath.
“I’ve never met anybody who laughs as much as you do,” I said after a while.
He was still laughing. “I never laugh. I haven’t laughed in years.”
“You’re laughing right now.”
Jack sat up at that, as if he hadn’t noticed.
The irony. Telling him he was laughing finally got him to stop laughing.
“I guess I am,” he said, seeming to marvel at the idea. “Huh.”
“You laugh constantly,” I said, amazed that he didn’t know this about himself. “You laugh at everything.”
“Mostly at you, though,” he said.
I gave him a look, like Thanks.
He studied me, like he was just realizing what he’d said was true.
“You can’t ignore these threats,” I said, fully ready to launch into a fiery lecture about how small threats could snowball into big ones.
But just then, something unexpected made me lose my train of thought.
A horse walked into the pen where we were sitting.
A horse.
A white and brown horse just walked through the open gate of the pen and strode toward us. Out of nowhere, I swear. A naked horse.
I tensed up, and Jack noticed. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of horses, too.”
“No,” I said, on principle. “Just—what’s it doing here?”
“Doing here? He lives here.”
I watched as it came at us.
More accurately, it came at Jack—parking itself right in front of him and lowering its velvety muzzle right down to him, nose to nose. And let me assure you: What’s true of cows is also true of horses. They look a lot smaller on TV.
This thing’s face was the size of a suitcase.
I’d seen the horses of course—from a distance. In the corral. Looking … less large.
Jack had explained to me the first day how his folks had adopted a half a dozen homeless older horses who needed a pleasant place to live out their lives.
“Kind of a horse retirement home,” he’d explained.
Which was great, in theory.
It’s all fun and games until you have a giant pair of nostrils in your face.
“Hey, friend,” Jack said to the horse, lifting his hands to stroke its nose. “This is Hannah. Don’t bite her.”
Then Jack walked away, and came back with a bag of oats.
He sat back down beside me, reached in, and pulled out a handful.
He flattened his palm, and the horse brought his fuzzy lips right down onto it and hoovered up every last grain.
“Your turn,” Jack said next, offering me the bag.
“No, thank you.”
Jack tilted his head. “You’ve got the scariest job of anybody I know, but you’re afraid of horse lips.”
“It’s not the lips, it’s the teeth.”
Jack started laughing again.
“See?” I said. “You’re laughing again.”
“See?” Jack said, like it was my fault. “You’re hilarious.”
Jack did the next handful himself—but then he bwok-ed like a chicken at me until I finally said, “Fine.”
I reached into the bag, closed my palm around a clump of oats, and held it out toward the horse.
“Keep your hand flat,” Jack said, “so he doesn’t eat your fingers.”
“Not helping,” I said, as the horse whispered his lips over my palm until he’d cleaned his plate.
“Tickles, huh?” Jack said.
“In a manner of speaking.”
“This is Clipper,” Jack said then. “He’s a retired circus horse.”
I looked up at Clipper with new respect.
“We got him when I was in high school,” Jack said. “He was only eight then. He got an injury that was just bad enough to retire … but he was really fine. I spent my senior year doing tricks on him.” Jack patted his neck. “He’s an old man now.”
“What kind of tricks?” I asked.
In response, without a word, Jack got a halter from the tack room and slipped it over Clipper’s head. Then he motioned for me to follow him as he led the horse through the open gate to the paddock.
I stopped at the gate and watched as Jack hoisted and swung himself up onto Clipper’s bare back, and the horse, seeming to know just what to do, shifted from a walk, to a trot, to a gentle canter.
The fence around the paddock was oval-shaped, and they followed the perimeter. Jack held the lead rope in one hand, but he didn’t even have to steer.
“How have you never done a western?” I demanded.
“I know, right? I have ‘horseback riding’ on my résumé.”
“Do you even need a résumé?”
“Nah. But still.”
“You should do a western! This is a total waste of talent.”
“Okay,” Jack said. “If I ever make another movie, I will.”
I was just about to ask him if he would ever make another movie, but then he said, “Get ready.”
Then Jack leaned forward and grabbed two fat fistfuls of hair at the base of Clipper’s mane … and I don’t even know how to describe what he did next: Without the loping horse ever breaking stride, Jack swung off the left side, landed with both feet, bounced back up, slid across the horse’s back, then swung off to the right side, and did the same bounce over there. And then he just kept doing it, back and forth, right and left, bouncing from one side to the other like he was slaloming.
I was so astonished, I couldn’t even make a sound.
I just stood there, gaping.
After a full lap, Jack settled again on Clipper’s back and turned to me to check my reaction.
Clipper was still loping at that steady pace.
“Cool, huh?” Jack said.
All I could muster was, “Be careful!”
“That wasn’t scary,” Jack said then, looking pleased at my concern. Then he said, “This is scary.”
And then, before I could stop him, still holding the lead rope, Jack pressed his hands against Clipper’s withers, leaned forward, and brought his sneakers up to the horse’s back. Then slowly, carefully, as Clipper continued to canter along beneath him, Jack stood up.
He stood up!
Knees bent and arms out, like a surfer.
And Clipper just kept loping around the paddock.
“Amazing, right?” Jack said, when my mute astonishment had gone on too long. “It’s all Clipper. His gait is so smooth, and nothing spooks him. You can do anything. You can hang from his neck. You can do a handstand.”
“Do not do a handstand!” I said.
“Nah,” Jack said. “I’m going to do something better.”
And then, before I could respond, Jack squatted down low—all without the horse ever breaking stride—pushed himself back, and rolled a backward somersault off the horse’s rump, dropping the lead rope as he went, and landing on his feet.
“Jesus Christ!” I shouted, and not in a good way.
Jack bowed deep and low, then turned to me, enjoying my horror, and said, “Been a long time since I did that. I’m gonna be sore tomorrow.”
“No more somersaults!” I said, like I was making a rule.
Jack just looked really pleased with himself. “You’ve got me showing off for you.”
“Don’t show off for me,” I said. “I don’t want you to show off for me.”
But Jack was walking over toward Clipper—who had slowed to a stop as soon as Jack landed and was now looking at us with his long, somber eyelashes.
Jack collected the lead rope and started walking the horse toward me. “Now it’s your turn,” Jack said.
“No, thank you.”
“God, you’re a scaredy cat. How is that possible in your line of work?”
“I don’t know how to ride,” I said.
“That’s the great thing about Clipper,” Jack said. “He does it all for you.”
“I can’t ride a horse,” I said, as Jack kept coming closer. “I can do other things. I can drive a car backward on the freeway. I can rappel off a roof. I can pilot a helicopter.”
Did I normally like a new challenge?
Of course.
But maybe I had enough skills. Or maybe I just didn’t want to embarrass myself any further in front of Jack.
“This should be easy, then,” Jack said.
I shook my head. “I’m good.”
But Jack and the horse were right next to me now. “Just walking,” Jack cajoled. “No tricks. Easy. You’ll love it. All you have to do is sit. And I’ll hold the lead rope.”
I considered the horse, then I considered Jack.
Jack laced his fingers together and bent down to hold his hands like a stirrup. “Grab a big handful of mane, and give me your foot,” he said.
I hesitated.
In a whisper, Jack started going, “Bwok, bwok, bwok.”
I pushed out a sigh and lifted my foot into his hands. “Why is you bwok-ing like a chicken working on me? Why does everything you do work on me?”
I didn’t even have time to worry that I’d confessed too much before Jack was hoisting me up the side of the horse.
“Atta girl,” Jack said, moving his hands to my hips and then pushing my butt as I worked my leg around and got situated. “Not so hard, right?”
I was really glad I’d worn jeans that day.
I tried to sit up straight, like Jack had, but that’s when I realized how ridiculously high up I was. It was like standing on a high dive.
I let myself lie on my belly and hold on around Clipper’s neck.
“You can fly a helicopter,” Jack said, “but you can’t sit up on a horse?”
“Helicopters have seat belts,” I said.
“This is not rocket science,” Jack said.
“Settle down, horse boy,” I said. “Just because you’re the Simone Biles of horse gymnastics doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be.”
I looked over at Jack, and he’d started laughing. Again.
“Stop laughing,” I said.
“Stop making me laugh,” Jack said.
Then, with that, we started to walk.
And it wasn’t so bad.
Clipper’s gait really was very smooth.
I did not let go of Clipper’s neck. And Jack did not let go of the lead rope.
“How have you never been on a horse before?” Jack called back over his shoulder after a quiet minute.
“I have,” I said. “Once. On vacation, as a kid.”
Maybe it was the comforting rhythm of the walking. Or the salty, horsey smell. Or the airy clop of hooves on the paddock dirt. Or the motion of Clipper’s neck as he swung his head side to side. Or the solid, rocking weight of him underneath me. Or his bluster as he let out a noisy breath. Or even, if I’m honest, the occasional sight—whenever I peeked—of Jack up ahead, holding the lead rope in such an easy, almost tender manner, and walking ahead of us in such a trustworthy rhythm.
But I said, “It was the last vacation we took before my father moved out. Actually, he left halfway through the vacation. They fought, he left, and I never saw him again.”
“You never saw him again? Not once?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Of course, I didn’t go looking, either.”
“Do you think you ever will?”
“Nope.”
I could tell that Jack was hesitating to ask why.
“We were better off without him,” I said. It wasn’t true, of course. We were far worse without him. And that, right there, was the reason I would never meet him for coffee and make pleasantries. He’d forfeited all rights to the future when he ruined our lives.
“Wow,” Jack said.
“Yeah,” I said, and that’s when Clipper slowed to a stop. When I looked up, Jack’s face was all sympathy—like he hadn’t just heard what I’d said but had felt it.
I’d never told anyone that story.
I’d almost forgotten about it, actually.
But Jack’s face, as he listened, was so open, and so sympathetic, and so on my side that in that moment, despite all my rules, that memory just shared itself. I wasn’t a sharer. I didn’t even share things with nonclients. Especially not painful things. But I suddenly understood why people did it. It felt like relief. It felt like dipping your feet in cool water on a hot day.
This really was a revelation to me.
I suddenly felt like I could share things with Jack all night. Looking back, I might’ve.
But then I got saved by a disaster.
Because, next, we heard urgent yelling from back near the house.
Jack was unclipping the halter and helping me down before we could even make out the words. We took off running toward the sound and both vaulted the fence to cross the yard.
It was Hank, shouting into the darkness: “Jack! Jack!” And then: “Where are you? Jack!”
As we reached him, Hank turned toward the sound of us, his eyes wide and a little unfocused.
“What is it?” Jack said, out of breath.
“It’s Mom,” Hank answered. “She collapsed.”