When I dropped my hand, I knew he knew he’d won because he asked, “Anything on Nick?”

I gave in by answering, “Nothing except I’m shocked to find Nick Sebring is boring.” I rounded the bar, putting needed space between Creed and me. “His brother could be sitting and writing a letter and he’d be fascinating to watch. Nick. No. He’s got a desk job, works it, went home, made dinner, put on the game. That’s it.”

“So I take it tomorrow you’re switchin’ to Nair,” he surmised.

“Fuck yeah,” I confirmed, my eyes to a pile of folders on the edge of the counter that I not only didn’t put there, I had no idea what they were.

He saw what I was looking at and I knew this when he invited, “That’s everything I got on Nick, Nair and this investigation. Take it, read it, I’ll cook. When I’m done, I’ll bring you your food, we’ll eat and while we do, I’ll answer any questions you have.”

I looked up at him and said quietly, “You’re not staying here.”

“I’m not leaving,” he said quietly back.

We locked eyes.

I tried again. “There’s no reason for you to stay here.”

“Way you tell it,” he fired back instantly, “no reason for me to go either.”

Fuck.

Fuck!

I had to get back on my game. He was screwing me at every turn.

I broke eye contact, sucked back more beer, grabbed the folders and stalked through the kitchen to the back.

My house was shit. The bathroom suite was pink, put in during what I was guessing was the ‘50’s and the tub and basin had rust stains. The carpet was shag. There was wood paneling from the ‘70’s in every room and my kitchen appliances were all avocado.

I didn’t care. I made decent money but in my job, early retirement was necessary. You couldn’t carry on doing what I did for eternity. You had a brain in your head, you quit doing it before the age of fifty hit your life’s horizon. So I lived small but still content and socked back everything I could. The house was sturdy. It had personality that was mostly my mess, my cat and me, I spent very little time there and thus it worked.

It was the back room that sold me on the place.

It wasn’t a walled in patio. It also wasn’t not one. It had big windows so it seemed outside even though it was inside. Narrow, it had concrete floors I’d strewn with thick, bright, braided rugs. There was an old, slouchy, comfortable as all f**k couch that had tons of big, slouchy pillows on it. Two wicker chairs angled across from it, more slouchy pillows on those. A big upright chest at the wall to the side of the door from the kitchen that had everything you needed in it, corkscrew, bottle opener, lighters, cigs, extra ashtrays, condoms, the shelves covered with green, trailing, brightly potted plants that even I couldn’t manage to kill and I forgot to water them frequently.

I loved it back there. If I was home, I was back there. I even had two space heaters back there so when it was winter, I could still be there.

So I went back there, grabbed a pack of smoky treats, a lighter, ashtray and camped out on the couch with my beer and the folders.

What seemed minutes later but I knew by how much I’d read wasn’t, Creed came out with a plate of food that smelled divine in one hand and another cold one in the other.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” he muttered, handing me the plate and setting my beer on the table in front of me.

“You shouldn’t either,” I threw out my guess and his eyes caught mine.

“That’s why I know you shouldn’t do it,” he replied, confirming my guess and moving back into the house.

I looked at the ziti. It was baked. There was tons of cheese, some of it baked brown. It reeked of garlic and I knew at a glance it would be delicious.

I set the plate aside, put the file that was open on my lap on the low, rectangular table in front of me, grabbed the plate again, nabbed the fork stuck in the food, sat back and commenced eating. Upon my first bite it was confirmed. It was delicious.

Creed joined me, sitting in the wicker chair furthest from the door, putting his booted feet up to the edge of the table and his eyes to me.

He shoved a big fork full of ziti in his mouth and asked through it, “Questions?”

I didn’t have any. He was thorough. He didn’t miss a trick. This was added proof he was skilled, talented and experienced.

“You did a shit ton of work and got a month of nothing,” I told him something he already knew.

“This is why I know the ride’s gonna get bumpy,” he replied then shoved more ziti in his mouth.

I shoved more in mine, chewed and swallowed.

“So, no questions about the file, let’s get this closeness crap outta the way,” I suggested and he grinned while still chewing.

Then he invited, “Shoot.”

“Arizona?” I asked.

“Phoenix,” he answered.

I shoved more ziti in my mouth, buying time to find it so I could ask it.

Then I found it and asked it, “Married?”

“Divorced. Six years.”

Six years, divorced. His oldest child was twelve. I wondered how long he was married before the divorce. In other words, his first child was born four years after he left me so I wondered how long it took for him to replace me.

I didn’t ask this. It was clear we had to talk about our pasts, get to know each other. There was no avoiding it. But there were places we weren’t going to go.

I nodded then continued, “You work out of state often?”

“If the job feels good and the pay is right, yeah.”

“How long you been in state?”

His eyes held mine even as he shoved more ziti in his mouth, chewed and swallowed.

He was preparing me.

He didn’t have to. I was already braced.

Then he gave it to me. “Left Kentucky, went to Michigan. Moved from Michigan to South Carolina. Met Chelle there. Her parents moved to Arizona, she got pregnant, wanted to be close, we moved there.”

“Chelle?”

“Ex.”

“Right,” I muttered, leaned forward, grabbed my beer, sat back and took a swig before I looked back at him. “See your kids often?”

“Often as I can.”

“Close?”

His eyes grew sharper on my face before he answered but when he answered, with the words he said, this warning would be lost on me.