The Edge

“Women have a whole other set of problems and challenges and expectations that are impossibly unattainable. So you have people getting rich off selling crap to women to put on their faces, or lips or eyes, devices to suck in their gut and ass, or encouraging them to go under the knife to get bigger boobs or bigger butts or fewer wrinkles, or smaller boobs, or lesser butts, as the tastes of the money-grubbing influencers change. Or become skeletons so they can squeeze into latex miniskirts and cleavage-baring tops, without the benefit of personal chefs and trainers, all in the name of female empowerment. Which is one of the biggest hypocrisies I can think of, while others applaud, idolize, and enrich these people for telling females, particularly young and impressionable ones, that not rigidly adhering to their definition of physical attractiveness will doom them to be considered ugly by society. As though beauty and confidence and empowerment can’t exist in any shape, size, or color. But it’s all about the almighty dollar and it makes people do awful things to each other, but they rationalize it as actually helping those who are not perfect become perfect. So you see, it really is all about perspective.”

Devine laid down his fork. “Okay, men’s dilemma covered, neutral observer’s side taken care of, women’s challenges done. Now let’s hear your side.”

“Who says I have one?”

“All of what I saw in your studio says you do. Am I wrong?”

She rose. “Yes, you’re wrong. You done? I need to get back to work. You can stay here until your place is no longer compromised. And you can think about the fact that I asked you a simple question about what happened to you last night. And you had so little respect for me that you couldn’t think of anything other than to bullshit me. There, you finally got my side. Feel better?”

She walked out, leaving Devine sitting there thinking, first, that she was absolutely right in what she had said, and he felt like crap for doing that to her. And, second, that the more time he spent with the woman, the less he understood her.

And that had never happened to him before.

So am I losing my talent at evaluating people? Or have I just met my match in Alex Silkwell?

Chapter 31

Alex was in her studio when he left. Devine didn’t say goodbye. He just saw her through the window, but she didn’t see him because the woman was totally absorbed in her work. He did note that she had taken down the sketch of him from the easel. It was probably in the trash. He thought about telling her what had really happened to him last night, particularly after she had guilt-tripped him, and rightly so. But his loyalty to the mission prevented him from doing that. He didn’t yet know whom to trust in this town. Not even the woman who had given him sanctuary and made him a delicious breakfast. And whom he wanted, for some reason not yet clear to him, to help heal.

He jogged back to the inn, where he found Harper waiting for him out front.

The man was upset. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling and texting.”

“Sorry, I had my phone turned off,” Devine lied. He’d just not felt like talking to the lawman. “What’s up?”

The police chief’s ticked-off features hardened to a bristling scowl. “What’s up is your folks showed up to that hellhole with all the dead people inside and cut off access to everyone, even the state police.”

“Did they say why?”

“They didn’t say anything. Just flashed their fed creds and told us to back the hell off. They took the bodies and they have armed guards encircling the place while they do God knows what in there. The state police are pissed, I can tell you that. This might go all the way up to the governor’s office.”

“I’ll make a call and see what I can find out.”

Harper did not look mollified in the least by this offer. “Nothing against you, Devine, I know you’re just doing your job. But I sure as hell wish you’d never shown up in Putnam.”

Yeah, well, I’m feeling the same way, thought Devine.

He left Harper and walked to his cottage. Which was occupied.

Two men who screamed National Security were waiting for him. Plain suits, plain shoes, plain ties, uniform haircuts, unreadable expressions. One was tall and basketball player lean, the other medium height with some iron-pumping heft to his frame.

“Agent Mann,” said the shorter fellow, indicating himself. “And Agent Saxon,” he added, with a nod to his colleague.

They showed their creds. They were members of a little-known agency that was right at the heart of the country’s most stalwart defenses against enemies, both foreign and domestic, and their very presence made Devine tense.

“We need a detailed statement from you,” said Mann.

“Can I ask one thing first?”

“Sure, what?”

“How’d you access my room?”