Page 40 of Jack

“I saw the movie.”

“Bad version of the book. They changed her name.”

“Stella, I think? And you were Jason.”

“Like the Friday the 13th murderer, so that was a nice reference. I think that’s the house. We had a pizza party after practice here once.”

“It was her case that made you decide to be a . . . professional nice guy?”

“Finder, if we have to call it something. But no—that started when Boo went missing back when she was eight.”

Right.Also when she’d first decided that she could give Jack her heart. “She told me about it.”

“Went to my head. Listen, let me do the talking.” He’d pulled into the plowed driveway, bordered on either side by snowy banks. A shoveled trail led up to a white ranch home with a wreath still hanging on the door, the pine tips turning to rust.

“Hardly—”

He looked at her. “Listen. If she has disappeared, then I don’t want him spooked. It won’t matter what we say—he’ll think we’re cops and that’s the end. This isn’t the movies. I can’tmakehim talk.”

“I wasn’t?—”

He turned and headed up the porch, knocked on the door. A few pine needles spilled into the snow.

Footsteps inside, and the door unlocked, eased open.

Ethan, she supposed. A lanky teenager who’d clearly had a hard sleep, his hair spiked, wearing a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt. Clearly out of his persona as Supperclub valet. “Kingston?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “We just need a couple minutes.”

It might take longer than that to get him to talk, but she held that in. She wasn’t leaving without answers, so it didn’t matter what the boss ordered. She didn’t have to follow his crazy rules.

A purple haze lingered in the house, and the moment she stepped inside, the sweet, rancid odor of now legal cannabis filled the hallway. Jack glanced at her with a raised eyebrow, and she shrugged as they followed Ethan into the great room.

Heavy on the 1970s decor, a thick shag carpet covered an original wood floor, light-tan leather furniture, and large picture windows overlooked a river, frozen out back.

In the center of a wooden coffee table, an ashtray held a couple crumpled, burnt butts.

“Your dad around?” Jack asked, his voice easy, hands in his pockets.

“Cancun,” Ethan said and dropped onto the sofa, picked up one of the burnt butts and a lighter and started to fire up breakfast.

“Dude—can you wait on your high for a minute?” Jack said, his voice easy.

Ethan doused the flame. Set the joint down and leaned back against the sofa. Shrugged. “Whatever.”

Jack’s jaw tightened, but he still managed the smile.

So many layers to this man.

“So, you were working valet last night.”

“What of it?”

That thrummed a tight string in her. And she might be getting stoned just standing here.

Jack seemed unfazed. “Listen. This is a private conversation, just you and me?—”

“And the babe.”