The Dirt on Ninth Grave(39)

"He wasn't actually peeing," I said, growing exasperated again. I put a hand on Ian's arm to defuse the situation. "I'll be inside in a minute."



Instead of appeasing him, however, I enraged him. "Don't patronize me," he said through gritted teeth, turning on me this time. His anger stirred the wisps of hair on my face.



Garrett took a casual step back and leaned against the brick again, where he stood assessing the situation, thank God. I didn't know what Ian was capable of, not entirely, but I could only imagine what would happen to Garrett if he assaulted a cop.



I had no choice but to bring Ian into the fold. To explain our actions. "Look, Ian, I think  –  I mean, there might be something going on next door."



I led him away from Garrett to give us the illusion of privacy.



"How do you know him?" he asked, completely ignoring me.



"What? Ian, I'm trying to report a crime."



"You seem to know him really well."



"Are you even listening to me? I think something is happening"  –  I lowered my voice even further  –  "at Mr. Vandenberg's store."



Frustrated, he finally asked, "What?"



"There are men over there. They have plasma cutters."



His eyes widened, mocking me. "Not plasma cutters."



"And today, Mr. Vandenberg seemed really upset. Like something was wrong."



"Of course something was wrong. His wife took the kids and left him. It's all over town."



Holy shit, that gossip chick worked fast. I wasn't going to argue with him. His mind was made up, and all he cared about was my conversation with Garrett.



"Where do you know him from? Work?"



I brightened. "Yes. I deliver lunch to him sometimes. And today, he just seemed -"



"Not Vandenberg," he said, his tone as glisteningly sharp as a chef's knife. "That guy. Swopes." I paused, taking note of the vehemence in his voice. And the fact that he called him Swopes instead of Garrett, a name I hadn't used. Had he checked up on Garrett? Why would he do that? Either way, my patience had pretty much dissipated.



"You know what? I'm going to help close up. Maybe you should go home."



He went to grab my arm, and I stepped out of his reach.



"This is over," I whispered, throwing in a little vehemence of my own.




 

 



"You're upset," he said, suddenly trying to defuse the situation himself.



"That you broke into my apartment? That you order me around? That you won't take 'I just want to be friends' seriously? Noooo," I said, my tone dripping with sarcasm.



"Are you really saying we're over?"



"Ian, we never began."



"I'll give you some time to think about it."



I wanted to throw my arms up in exasperation. "I don't need time, Ian. I need you to leave."



"You don't know what you need."



This time the anger that flared around me was my own. I felt a flash of heat wash over me as he continued.



"I was there for you when you had no one."



"And I'm grateful, Ian, but you're a cop. It was your job. It doesn't mean I owe you my life."



His scowl glittered hot. "Doesn't it?"



"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"



He pushed away from me, gave Garrett one last glare for good measure, then strode into the café, slamming the door behind him.



"So," Garrett said, "things are good between you two? You seem really happy."



"Thank you for not trying to stand up for me." And getting yourself arrested in the process.



"Somehow I doubt you needed my help."



What a sweet thing to say.



"Crazy chicks are usually pretty tough."



Or not.



"What are you going to do about him?"



"Ian? What do you mean?"



"You don't actually think that's the end of it?"



"Well, yeah, kind of. I mean, I just told him it was."



"Because that works so well with psychopaths."



He had a point. I'd received conflicting vibes from him since Day One. He was a habitual liar, had terrible anger issues, and wore the same shirt for days at a time. He definitely had mental issues. Then again, I was standing in a dark alley with someone I hardly knew. I turned away from him, exasperated, and saw a kid standing at the end of the alley.



"Is that Osh?" I asked Garrett.



The kid stood with his hands in his pockets, his breaths fogging around him, so it was hard to see his face, but how many teens wore top hats? He glanced over his shoulder toward us, then just as quickly turned back to the street.