Killer Summer, Lynda Curnyn [books suggested by bill gates .txt] 📗

was able to jump into that water because he didn’t have any regard for human life.

His own at least. Getting Les out of that water was simply something that had to be done. Like cleaning the grill before the barbecue.“ I blew out a breath. ”Yeah, that made a lot of sense. I don’t know. Maybe I am blowing this out of proportion. I don’t even make sense to myself anymore.“

“No, I understand,” Myles said. “I’ve often felt like that.”

“You have?” I asked, turning to look at his solemn profile, noticing his clenched jaw.

“About my dad,” he said finally, his voice quieter, his eyes on the cracked concrete in front of us. “You know, after he died.”

But because I didn’t know—couldn’t know, since Myles had shut me out of his life so soon after that loss—I said, “Tell me.”

I felt a hesitation in him, and I looked up, saw the way he kept his eyes focused on the dark road, as if he might burn a path for us. “I guess what I mostly felt was angry after what happened.” He blew out a breath. “1 mean, I know my dad was a fucking hero—”

I cringed, mostly because I rarely heard a curse word come out of Myles’s mouth.

“But I couldn’t help thinking sometimes that he cared more about his victims than he did about us. His family. Like that time he got stabbed on a domestic disturbance call. And then going into that house that night, without any backup. It was like he cared more about those hoodlums who were squatting in that house than he did about his own kids.” He shook his head.“God, I know that sounds awful.”

“It’s okay,” I said, stopping him, taking his hand in mine as I looked at him.“It’s okay to be angry at him, Myles. You aren’t perfect. And neither was he.” But I could see by the swirl of emotions in Myles’s eyes—anger, yes, but also sadness so deep I felt it widening the gap between us—that I couldn’t reach him. How could I? Did I really understand what it meant to lose a parent that way? I mean, yeah, I had lost a parent, but my father was alive and well somewhere. His guilt was obvious. Whereas Myles’s dad had died a hero. At least to the rest of the world. I thought of Francesca, her sullenness as her father ran to Les’s rescue. Clearly she had some sort of resentment over Tom’s hero antics. I wondered, briefly, if Maggie had resented Tom. Resented him enough to seek solace somewhere else.

I looked into Myles’s eyes again and wished I could do something, anything, to take the sadness and anger away. But just as quickly as he’d opened up to me, I saw him close again, his golden brown eyes going vacant.

He resumed walking. “We’d better get moving. I’m not sure how late the kitchen is open at The Inn.”

As it turned out, the kitchen was not only open but well-supplied with Moose Tracks. And take-out containers for ice cream, which surprised me. I guess I had strolled here under the impression that Myles and I might be sharing a table and a bowl of Moose Tracks. Who knew you could take out ice cream from a restaurant? I thought, watching as Myles accepted a bag filled with two pint-sized containers of the stuff. I didn’t want to know who he was bringing all that ice cream back for. I guess, in light of everything, I was trying not to be selfish.

It wasn’t easy.

“You gonna get some?” Myles asked.

For who? I thought, realizing everybody was likely asleep back at the house. Or doing their own thing. Suddenly I wished for that fantasy house that Sage imagined we’d have this summer, the three of us, drinking, laughing, having a good old time. What had gone so wrong?

I looked at Myles, wishing I could go home with him, curl up on the couch in his living room and share a bowl of ice cream and some laughs. But of course I couldn’t. “I’m good,” I said finally, and we headed for the door.

We walked in silence for a short while, or we did once we passed the rowdy crowd of revelers who stood outside The Inn, smoking and talking and laughing as if tomorrow might never come. Soon enough, we were alone on West Lighthouse, and when Myles didn’t turn off on the road to his own house, I realized he was walking me home.

I sensed his mood was just as ponderous as mine, though I had no idea where his thoughts had gone until he stopped in front of a tall A-frame house that rose up prettily through the trees.

I looked at him as he studied the house, drank in his strong profile, the way his hair, which he’d let grow, now fell over his eyes. He turned to me, caught me staring and smiled. “Nice house,” he said.

“It is,” I replied, then dutifully turned to look at it.

“I could have a house like this,” he said quietly. “Probably by next summer. I’m going on that second interview with Banks, Rutherford and Simms,” he continued. “If I take the job, I’ll be making a lot of money. Probably triple what I would make in the D.A.‘s office.”

I looked at him, wondering who he was trying to convince.

“It’s not wrong to want things, Zoe,” he said, his tone filled with accusation.

I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off.

“It’s not wrong to want things for yourself. Or your family. That’s what matters, Zoe. Taking care of yourself. Your family. Not running after bad guys and collecting citations.”

Understanding expanded through me as I watched him struggle with his words. I wanted to touch him, to tell him that I understood, but I wasn’t sure he would accept my affection, considering that he was looking at me as if…as if I were the enemy.

I swallowed hard, feeling a slight relief when we started