“Hey, I’ve got nothing against any higher power. My perspective on the big picture is just a little different than a chapel.” He smiles, too. A full one that makes those smile lines form in his cheeks.
And as we say goodbye and he walks back to his van, I realize where the source of my anxiety is coming from.
It’s a separation issue.
I’M ABOUT TO HEAD TO bed that night when Rath knocks on my door.
“Yeah,” I call as I pull my hair up into a knot on the top of my head.
Rath opens the door just slightly and doesn’t look in my direction. “There’s someone here to talk to you, Miss Ryan.”
“Who is it?” I ask in confusion as I walk toward the door.
“The Sheriff,” Rath says. His reaction is conflicted, like he’d very much like to toss him out, but also is slightly afraid of whom I’m about to find downstairs.
The Sheriff is indeed at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for me. He takes his hat off when he sees me and gives a little tip of his head.
“Sorry to bother you, Miss Conrath,” he says in his heavy Southern drawl. “But I’ve been tryin’ to get a hold of ya for the past week. Decided to take my opportunity when I saw the lights on in the house.”
“It’s Ryan, actually,” I correct him. We stand there uncomfortably for a moment, and I realize it’s because he never tries to shake my hand.
“Miss Ryan,” he says, giving an uncomfortable look. “I, uh, wanted to talk to you for a while, if you don’t mind.” His eyes dart up to Rath, who is standing behind me, half way up the stairs. “Alone.”
“Okay.” Cause what else can I say?
And when I invite the Sheriff into the library it is the first time I start to feel like this house is actually mine.
“I didn’t get your name,” I say as I close the door behind us.
“Luke McCoy,” he answers. He wanders the library for a minute, observing it in its entirety. He stops in front of the picture of my father and studies it. So I take the opportunity to study him.
He’s young for a sheriff. Thirty, maybe thirty-two. A completely shaved face shows a strong jaw line. Strong hands, strong arms. Dark eyes that reveal dark knowledge.
“You know,” he says without looking away from Henry. “I became Sheriff when Jasmine killed the previous one last year. He said something or another to piss her off, and she ripped his throat out. I was standin’ right there.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say as goosebumps flash across my skin. I try to imagine it: the soft, easy-South woman I’d met with blood dripping down her mouth, murdering a human being like that.
“She may look all sweet and kind and she knows how to talk you into thinking she’s the best thing that happened to this town since its creation,” Luke says. “But she’s a bloodthirsty killer.”
He takes a few steps toward me and removes his hat again. He holds it between both hands behind his back and his eyes finally fix on me. “I’m here to ask you what kind of person you are, Miss Ryan.”
“What kind of person I am?” I repeat. Because what kind of question is that?
Luke nods. “I need to know. Because I am well aware of what you father was and if you are who you and Rath say you are, I know what you will be someday. And I know what your heritage implies and how that might change everything in this town.”
I swallow hard. Luke’s eyes are intense and dark, and suddenly I’m just a little scared. If I give the wrong answer, what would he do?
“I am not a killer,” I say, standing a little taller. “I am not a manipulative person. I am not a politician, and I am not a pawn.”
We stare at each other for several long moments and I can feel this silent dance going on between us. The dance of truth and trust.
“I’m hoping you’re also not a liar,” he finally says. But I do see his eyes soften. He looks away and walks to an overstuffed chair and takes a seat.
I perch on the edge of the sofa.
“You need to be aware of how the town is going to react to your presence here,” he says. “It helps that you don’t go by the name Conrath, but it sure doesn’t help how much you look like Henry.”
“How many people even knew what he looked like?” I ask, feeling myself relax just slightly now that I’m not being interrogated. “I mean, as far as I can tell, he never left the Estate and hasn’t been an actual part of this town since they tried to kill him in 1875.”
Luke leans forward in his seat and rests his elbows on his knees. “Henry didn’t come out often, but he did sometimes. Always at night, but people have a habit of peering out their windows in this town. Henry visited the Hanging Tree every year on the anniversary of his brother’s death. He’d leave one white rose at the base of it. There’s a reason Henry is such a legend. He was like the boogieman, and everyone was terrified of him, but incredibly eager to catch a glimpse of the immortal man. I assume you know what he did the night his brother was killed?”