I Love You More: A Novel Read Free Page A

don’t wear that much makeup.”
    “You wear enough.”
    “I didn’t used to.”
    “You mean when you were three?”
    In the distance, I heard a house door slam, then heels clicking in my direction. It was Mama, which confused me. She wasn’t even dressed when I saw her last. She passed by my hiding spot and got into the backseat of the blue car, I saw that she was wearinga red head scarf and blouse too. Rather than turn to greet her, Jewels simply nodded as she repositioned the rearview mirror. Even though she wasn’t looking in the mirror, Bert nodded too. The car backed out of its parking space and drove away, the tires screeching. Within moments all I could see were three sets of blond hair flapping in the wind like wings, and then they were gone.

Kyle

    My first thought was: God, she was beautiful. It wasn’t just her flawless features; it was also her elegance, fragility. Later, I wondered whether she always exuded that sense of vulnerability, or if its presence was a response to the situation. But I didn’t think about that then. My second thought was: Lucky bastard. My third was: Sorry bastard. I’d always counted out my thoughts like that when I arrived at a murder scene. After the day was long over, I’d sit down at the rickety wood dining table in my small, sparsely furnished apartment with my nightly three fingers of Redbreast, and write each word on an index card. Then I shuffled them, laid all but the last facedown, and one by one turned them upright. With my practiced poker face, I challenged myself, attempted to solve the crime over and over, from different angles and varied perspectives. Although it had been awhile since I’d worked a murder case, the word list flew through my mind like a banner behind a plane.
    Beautiful, lucky, sorry
.
    It was the Fourth of July weekend. The temperature, in the upper nineties and climbing, was the highest in recent history. Good for tourism but challenging for suit coats and ties. Mack and I had rolled down all the unmarked Buick’s windows beforewe braved its scorching black leather seats, but that hadn’t helped much. Even the wind was hot. We were complaining about the car’s broken air conditioner when the call first came in. I thought we’d be responding to another drunken teenage party. We’d already answered six the night before and one that morning. Then the dispatcher gave the response code.
    “Did she say 187?” Mack asked.
    “Sure sounded like it,” I said. I stuck the flasher on the roof, turned on the siren, and hit the gas.
    We don’t have many murders in the Outer Banks, and even less on Cooper’s Island. A domestic disturbance or two, a barroom brawl, a cat caught up a tree is about the extent of it, except from mid-March to mid-April when high school and college kids head our way for their spring breaks, or during the holidays inside and around the lazy heat of summer: Memorial Day, Fourth of July, and Labor Day. The island itself is roughly eight square miles of sand and wild “brownery” interrupted by a small business district, clusters of houses and trees, and the occasional touristy gift shop. Driving can be a challenge. Most of the roads are ancillary, narrow passageways that accommodate only one car at a time, some paved, some dirt. Luckily Mack and I had been driving along Route 122. Paved and even partially striped, it runs through town and continues in one big circle around the island.
    It had been two years since I’d been back and I can’t say I’d missed working murder cases, but I did get that old rush. There’s a smell to fear and blood. A stale, sour stench that doesn’t only soak your nostrils; it gets into your skin, hair, clothing, and mind like bar smoke, and not even a change of clothes, shower, or solving a case will wipe it completely away. I used to hate that smell, but not that day. The minute I got that first whiff, I felt like I’d come home.
    We parked. A steep sandy embankment covered with