Free The Lost by Vicki Pettersson Page B

it’s not about the war, darling. It’s about the win.”
    Grif stopped dead and looked at her.
    Kit stared back. “That means being surly doesn’t help our cause.”
    â€œAnd being polite does?” he said, resuming his stride, though his anger had deflated and his shoulders slumped.
    â€œOf course. Ms. Howard said Mary Margaret doesn’t like men. That’s you, not me. So being polite keeps the dialogue open. She’ll be out from under Ms. Howard’s eye and thumb in just a few days. I’ll try again then.”
    â€œI don’t know, Kit,” Grif said, reaching the passenger’s side of the car. “Maybe we should let her be. I have no idea what happened to her in the last fifty years, but some people got a reason not to remember the past. Plus, seeing me, like this . . .”
    He gestured down the length of his body, indicating all of it—the suit, the shoes, the face that hadn’t aged a day in half a century.
    Kit paused, the car door half-open. “Honey, she’s locked up in a mental-health facility, and drugged up to her eyeballs. And that’s when she’s not trying to drown her memories in a bottle. You really think she’s forgotten anything? Take it from someone who’s been there. Mary Margaret’s past is chasing her down.”
    Kit began to climb in, but Grif held his hand up over the roof of the car. “Back up. What do you mean you’ve been there?” He pointed back at the sterile building. “You mean . . . there ?”
    Squinting up into the sun, she sighed. “Not Sierra Vista, but yes. One like it.”
    â€œBut you’re . . .” Grif couldn’t help it. He made a face like he’d just swallowed a bitter pill. “Cheery.”
    Kit barked out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yes, and I had to make a conscious decision, and do a lot of work, to get that way. Starting when I was seventeen.”
    â€œAfter your father was killed.”
    Kit just nodded as she climbed in the car. Grif was slower, but only because he was putting it all together.
    â€œThat’s when the rockabilly thing started, too, right?” he said, once he’d pulled his door shut, angling his body toward hers.
    â€œYes,” she murmured, and Grif knew the memories were bad, because she didn’t chide him for calling her lifestyle a “thing.”
    â€œLocked up, drugged up . . . shut up.” Though the car was silent, her hands were propped stiffly on the glossy wood of the steering wheel as if it was holding her in place. She finally looked over at him. “That’s not how I wanted to live, you know? So being cheery, as you call it, being rockabilly, and being a damned good reporter is my way of keeping the dialogue open.”
    â€œWith whom?” he asked.
    She blinked at him, then said, “With the world.”
    Grif simply reached out and placed his palm against her cheek.
    The transformation was instant. Her hands fell to her lap, an enormous smile bloomed on her face, and a blush sent color rushing to her cheeks. He’d never met anyone who laid her emotions bare more easily than Kit. It made him want to cover her up, mostly, though lately it had started making him feel naked. So, for them both, he drew her close, held her tight, and rested his lips atop hers. He kept her there until they both were steady again.
    â€œDon’t worry,” Kit said, glancing back to the building where Mary Margaret was hiding. “If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s getting people to talk.”
    As if on cue, her phone rang. Checking it, Kit smiled, then flashed him the number. Detective Dennis Carlisle’s photo flashed with it. “See?” she said cheerily, before answering it.
    Grif just shook his head. Looks like they were headed to the dead house. Maybe, he mused, her communication powers extend to the deceased.
    Then again, that