She didn’t know where he lived, couldn’t picture his home. Hillsboro, though a small town, was still large enough that it was impossible to know everyone or be familiar with all the neighborhoods. “Where do you live?”
Again that quick glance. “Not all that far from your mother’s house. Elmwood.”
Elmwood was just four streets over. It was a section of Victorians, some in good repair and some not. She certainly hadn’t pictured him in a Victorian, and said as much.
“I inherited the house, from my great-aunt. Aunt Bessie, the one I told you about.”
She sat upright. She had known a Bessie on Elmwood. “Miss Bessie Childress?”
“That was her.” He lifted his beer in salute to his dead great-aunt.
“You’re Miss Bessie’s nephew?”
“Great-nephew. I spent the best summers of my life with her when I was a kid.”
“She brought over a coconut cake when Daddy died.” Daisy was stunned; this was almost like going to Europe and running into your next-door neighbor. She had thought Jack a complete outsider, but instead when he was a boy he’d been spending summers just four streets away from her.
“Aunt Bessie made the best coconut cake in the world.” He smiled, reminiscing about coconut cakes he had known.
“Why didn’t I ever meet you?”
“For one, I only came during the summer, when school was out. For another, I’m older than you; we wouldn’t have hung out with the same crowd. You would have been playing Barbie while I played baseball. And Aunt Bessie went to a different church.”
That was true. Miss Bessie Childress had been solidly Methodist, while the Minors were Presbyterian. So it was logical they hadn’t met when they were children, but it still gave her a jolt to realize he was . . . why, he was almost home-folk.
There was a sudden disruption in the flow on the dance floor. A man sprawled on the floor, making couples scatter. A woman screamed, “Danny, no!” Her shrill voice cut through the loud music, which crashed to a discordant stop. The man who had fallen—or been knocked down—jumped up, lowered his head, and plunged toward another man, who swiftly side-stepped and bumped into a woman, sending her sprawling. Her partner took immediate exception, and the dance floor erupted.
“Aw, shit.” Jack heaved a sigh and grabbed her wrist, hauling her to her feet. “Here we go again. C’mon, we’ll go out the back.”
They joined the pack of bodies that was doing the same thing, but again Jack used his size and strength to bull his way through, and in just a moment they were in the humid night air, listening to the sound of shouts and breaking glass coming from inside.
“You’re a catalyst,” he said, shaking his head.
“This wasn’t my fault,” she said indignantly. “I wasn’t anywhere near those people. I was sitting with you.”
“Yeah, but it’s just something about you being here, like the universe is out of whack. Believe it or not, most nights there isn’t any trouble at all. Where’s your car?”
She led the way around the building to her car. People were pouring out of the front entrance, too. It was like an instant replay of the week before.
She sighed. She’d danced only three dances this week. At the rate things were going, next time she’d be lucky to get in one dance before the fight started.
When she got her car key out of her purse, he took it from her, unlocked the door, then opened it for her before returning the key. He watched, his expression inscrutable, as she buckled her seat belt and reached for the door handle to close the door.
He stood in the way, frowning a little now. “I’ll follow you home.”
“Why?” Her surprise was plain.
He shrugged. “Because I just got an itch between my shoulder blades. Because I heard you’ve moved and I don’t like the street. Just because.”
“Thanks, but it isn’t necessary. I left the porch light on.”
He bared his teeth in a grin that wasn’t a grin. “Humor me,” he said, and it wasn’t a suggestion.
THIRTEEN
Son of a bitch! When people started pouring out of the club like ants, Sykes would have pounded the steering wheel in frustration if it wouldn’t have gained him attention he didn’t want. What was it with these people? Couldn’t they go to a goddamn dance without fighting?
He didn’t like getting out of the car, but he did it anyway, searching in the turmoil for blond hair and a red dress. The scurrying crowd blocked his view of the section of the lot where she’d parked, so he worked his way in that direction, craning his head for a glimpse of her. In the dark, with people darting in every direction and headlights briefly slicing across the scene as cars left, the effect was almost like having a strobe light flashing.
Then he saw her, walking calmly across the gravel as if she’d just left a wedding instead of a brawl. He sidestepped as a car went by just inches from his toes, but never took his gaze off his quarry. Then he halted, swearing to himself. She had gone inside alone, but she came out with company, in the form of a guy who looked like he ate rocks for breakfast. Sykes was close enough to hear him say, “I’ll follow you home,” and he immediately swerved away, lingering only long enough to note which car was hers, so he could match it to one of the tag numbers and makes of car he’d written down. Okay, so he couldn’t follow her home tonight; three cars would make a damn parade. But he had her tag number now, so essentially he had her. Swiftly returning to his car, he glanced down the list and immediately saw the description he wanted: eight-year-old Ford sedan, beige—which was a pretty blah car for a woman with such sexy class—with a 39 prefix on the license plate, meaning the car was registered in Jackson County.