“That’s dumb. Let’s go yank those fuckers out,” I said.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. It sounds disgusting. I can’t wait.”

  “Have you ever taken out stitches before?” she asked.

  “Heck no. But give me five minutes with the internet and I’ll be an expert.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Cool. I’ll meet you in the bathroom in five minutes,” I said.

  Behind me, Duarte laughed, then turned it into a cough. “I’m sure I only heard a small portion of that conversation, but just so you know, it sounded odd.”

  “Nope, we’re arranging a tryst. We just need some surgical scissors, tweezers, and probably disinfectant,” I said.

  Duarte nodded. “Okay. Cool. Freakier than I thought you two were, but that’s great. I support you.”

  “She’s taking out my stitches,” Laurel said.

  “Yeah. That makes more sense. Want me to get the supplies I picked up for you?” he asked.

  “Yes, please.” Laurel pushed back from the table.

  Seven minutes later, I let myself into the bathroom armed with knowledge gained from three websites and two YouTube videos. Laurel wasn’t there yet. But there was a grocery bag on the counter. I emptied it. There was a pair of scissors and a pair of tweezers. Both were sealed in surgical packaging. There was also a box of gloves, a pack of Steri-Strips, sealed squares of gauze, rubbing alcohol, and cotton balls. According to my extensive internet searching, Duarte had done well on his shopping trip.

  “Hey.” Laurel let herself in. “I didn’t know if I should, uh, leave my shirt on or not?”

  “No. Take it off. It’ll be easier to clean the whole area.”

  “Pants?”

  “Umm, I guess lose those too.”

  “Right. Okay.” She stripped off her T-shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra, which I wasn’t expecting. Christ, she had excellent boobs. I focused on the square of gauze high on her chest, but my gaze kept getting pulled down. “Sorry,” she said. “I haven’t been wearing a bra. The strap just rubs my stitches.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Totally.” I was being so cool about this.

  She pushed off her chinos. Thankfully, she was wearing boxer briefs. I couldn’t handle naked Laurel. “Where do you want me?’

  “Uh.”

  “Seriously, Cash?”

  “The counter. Just sit on the counter.” I washed my hands thoroughly before pulling on gloves. And I didn’t even look at her boobs while I was doing it.

  I teased off the tape holding the gauze in place. Underneath was a neat red line almost two inches long. A line of perfect sutures intersected the healing wound. I wiped the whole area down with rubbing alcohol. The sting of the alcohol made my nose itch.

  “Want me to open the scissors?” Laurel asked.

  “No. They’re sanitized. You’ll contaminate them.”

  “Got it.”

  I unfolded a square of gauze before opening the scissors and tweezers and laying them on it. “Okay, I’m going to cut the first stitch and pull it out. It shouldn’t hurt. It’ll just be a tug.”

  “These aren’t my first stitches. Not by a long shot.”

  “Oh. When else have you had stitches?” I pinched the knot of the first stitch and pulled it up. Then I slipped the tip of the scissors in and snipped the loop. I braced my pinkie, ring, and middle fingers against her chest to keep my hand steady. I gently tugged the knot and the suture pulled out. I looked up at her face. She was staring at the wall over my shoulder. This close to her, I could smell her in perfect layered detail. Her sweet deodorant, the salt of her sweat, the bitter almond and cedar of her skin. It was excruciating.

  “The first time, I guess I was in third grade? I was playing basketball with Lance and he elbowed me in the face. Split my lip. Probably didn’t need stitches, but my mom was worried about scarring.”

  “When else?” I gripped the next knot and pulled up to get the scissors under it.

  “The summer before high school, I decided to take up whittling. Stabbed my hand after ten minutes,” she said. I snipped out another suture. “You know that scar on my hand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s from whittling. My dad was livid because he had just reviewed knife safety. And we were in a cabin two hours from civilization.”

  “Smooth.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “I’ve never had stitches,” I said.

  “Never?”

  “No. I spent my childhood indoors reading. Or gardening with Clive.”

  “Hey, gardening is dangerous.”

  “It’s really not.” The suture I was pulling caught and tugged at the skin before coming out. “Sorry. Did that hurt?”

  “No. It’s fine.”

  “Have you ever had to get stitches for a gardening related injury?” I asked.

  “No. But I probably should have. One summer Lance and Logan and I were up at my grandma’s. Logan and I were wrestling in the shed and I cut the back of my thigh on a pair of garden shears. We knew we’d be in trouble for wrestling so Lance poured hydrogen peroxide on it, covered it in Band-Aids, and I wore long shorts all summer.”

  “How did any of you make it to adulthood?”

  “I’m really not sure. We made a lot of bad decisions.”

  I pulled out the last suture and set it in my pile. “Last one.”

  “Do I get a lollipop now?”

  “No. You still need Steri-Strips and we have to do the stitches on your leg.”

  She let out a big sigh. “Bummer.”

  “Don’t move.” Her breathing was fine, but exaggerated sighing was too much movement. I was having enough trouble concentrating. I peeled off the adhesive backing for a sheet of Steri-Strips. I used the tweezers to lay the first strip over the wound.

  “Is that it?” Laurel asked.

  “Yeah. That’s it. One Steri-Strip for a two-inch laceration.”

  “So that’s not it?”

  “No. Dipshit.” I placed three more strips. “Okay, now you’re good.” I prepped another cotton ball to wipe down her thigh. I knelt on the bath mat so I was eye level with her leg. The wound was perfectly centered on the top of her thigh. It looked a little thicker than the one on her shoulder. And it had a few more stitches. I covered the whole area with rubbing alcohol. Alcohol dripped out of the cotton ball and dribbled down her thigh.

  She shivered. “That’s cold.”

  “Sorry.” I braced my hand with splayed fingers again and grabbed the first knot with the tweezers. I teased the scissors under the line and clipped it. The loop of plastic thread that came out was slightly longer, but it pulled out just as easy. I removed two more before I realized Laurel’s breathing was a bit erratic. I glanced at her face to see if I was hurting her. She was biting her lip and staring at the ceiling. “Are you okay?”

  “Yep. Fine.” She didn’t look at me.

  “Because you kind of look not fine.” I moved my hands away from her.

  “Can you just finish?” she asked.

  “Not if I’m hurting you. Pain can be a sign of infection. If that’s the case, we need to get you to a doctor.” The internet was very clear on that. And the internet never lied.

  “It doesn’t hurt.”

  “Then why do you look like it hurts?” I asked.

  “Because you keep brushing the inside of my thigh. It’s a lot of touching.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing and just finish,” she snapped. “Shit. I didn’t mean that. Not like that at least. It’s just a really confusing combination of sensation with your hands and the stitches coming out and all.”

  “Totally. I’ll try not to make it weird.” I picked up the next knot while keeping my hand off her skin. I cut the suture and pulled it away. It was a bit shaky, but it came out okay. “Did that hurt at all? It tugged more.”

  “It wasn’t bad. I could feel it more.”

  “Okay. I have to touch you, but I’ll try not to make it sexy.”

  She started laughing. “Great. Thank you.”

  I pressed my fingertips to brace instead of my whole hand. And I did my best to not brush her with the back of my right hand. “Only five to go.”

  “Distract me. Tell me a story.”

  Right. Because I didn’t already have enough happening in my head. “Sure. Uhh. What kind of story?”

  “How are things with your mom?”

  “Okay, I guess. I talked to her again this afternoon. She seems pretty chill.”

  “Wow. Calm down with all the details,” Laurel said.

  “Sorry.”

  “How’s Andy? Did she get her license?”

  “She did. She fucking loves Gracie-Ray.” I pulled out another stitch.

  “Who is Gracie-Ray?” she asked.

  “That’s what she named her truck. She and Lane are currently replacing the bed with wood slats.”

  “No way. That’s just what I thought she should do.”

  “It looks amazing. They have it all sanded and stained and varnished. They were supposed to install them this week, but you know.” Another suture slid out. Three left.

  “Lane is living in the Tri Ep house and Andy is at Grandma’s,” Laurel said.

  “Yep. But watching Nate try to help them was highly entertaining.” I snipped another. “They brought him to the hardware store to use his masculine privilege and help load the wood, but then they tortured him the entire time they were de-constructing the bed.” Two left.

  “Aww, I bet he loved it.”

  “Of course he did,” I said.

  “What else? Is she doing okay driving and parking it?”

  “Oh, yeah. You taught her well. She can parallel park that beast with her eyes closed. It’s super fun on crowded streets. It almost got Robin a date.” I tugged out one more.

  “How did Andy parking get Robin a date?”

  “This dude offered to park it for Andy on K. She smirked and rolled her eyes and parked. When they got out of the truck, the guy started hitting on Robin. Said she was an impressive teacher.”

  “What happened?”

  “Robin said, ‘I know,’ and walked away.”

  Laurel laughed. “Nice.”

  I teased out the last stitch and held it up. “Boom.” I peeled the adhesive off another sheet of Steri-Strips. “We’re almost done.” I placed the strip, careful not to pull at her skin. When the strips were all in place, I stood and stripped off my gloves. “Now you get a lollipop.”

  Laurel looked around. “I don’t see any lollipops.”

  “Well, it’s a metaphorical lollipop. I think you’ll find not having stitches its own reward, much like a lollipop.”

  “That’s a bullshit lollipop.” She scooted off the counter. “Thanks, Doc.” She put out her hand to shake.

  I laughed and shook her hand. “Anytime.”

  Her hand felt good in mine. She was looking up at me. The bruising had mostly faded from around her eyes. I brushed my fingertips under eye. She didn’t blink, didn’t waver. I leaned forward and kissed her.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Her lips were firm and warm. She tasted like beer and french fries and I wasn’t aware of the aphrodisiac combination of those flavors until right then. She ran her tongue over my lip. I groaned. She twisted her hands in the back of my T-shirt. I pulled her tight against me. I spread my hands over the soft skin of her back. She was almost naked. And this was a bad idea.

  I pulled away. We pressed our foreheads together. We were breathing heavily. The air between us still tasted like her.

  “You’re killing me.” She opened her eyes and looked at me in pained accusation.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t be sorry. Just keep kissing me.”

  “I can’t. Fuck. I really can’t.” I took a step back. Her hands dropped away from me.

  I retreated into my room and closed the door. I sat on the edge of the bed and took a couple of deep breaths. That was stupid. Really stupid. I reached for my phone to call Robin but stopped at the last moment. If I asked Robin for advice, I’d have to tell her what I needed advice about. I wasn’t particularly in the mood to tell her I’d kissed Laurel. She would tell me it was stupid and I already knew that. Or she would tell me it wasn’t stupid and I couldn’t handle that.

  It took me ten minutes to get my breathing to even out. I could feel the heat slowly draining from me. My energy went with it. My hands were still shaking, but less so. I went back into the common room. Laurel was leaning over Boyd’s shoulder at the table. She was asking questions, but I could hear in her tone that her heart wasn’t in it. I picked up the Toy Story Cowboy packet and dropped into the wingback chair in the living room. Duarte was stretched out on the couch reading his own information packet.

  The cowboy mentioned that his paramour had an allegedly sexy flower tattoo on her left breast. Well, he didn’t phrase it quite like that. I added it to the list of identifying features. Not that a flower tattoo was helpful in identifying anyone. It wasn’t exactly distinctive. It might have been if there were any details, but alas the cowboy had only said “hot flower,” which was less than helpful.

  I heard Laurel’s voice go up. I didn’t hear what she said, but I heard the excitement.

  “Where?” Boyd asked.

  “There. Zoom in. Can you click on that picture?”

  He clicked. “I don’t get it. What am I looking at?”

  “Cash, Duarte, come look at this,” Laurel said.

  Duarte and I looked at each other. He shrugged and pushed himself off the couch. I followed him to the table.

  “What’s up?” Duarte asked.

  “Look at this picture. Does anything stand out to you?” Laurel pointed at a photo that took up most of Boyd’s laptop screen.

  It was a whole bunch of planes lined up on the tarmac of an airport. Two or three lines of them. There were snow tipped mountains in the background. The amount of melt put it somewhere in late summer. Evergreen trees filled the middle ground of the photo.

  “What are we looking at?” Duarte asked.

  “The planes,” she said.

  I focused on the planes. There were a lot. Some were sleek and aerodynamic looking. Jets, I guess. Some looked like they came out of an adventure film about the thirties. I knew nothing about planes. But some of them were painted real pretty.

  “Motherfucker,” Duarte whispered. He leaned in close. “Damn, you’re good.” He straightened and lightly punched Laurel in the shoulder.

  “You see it too?” she asked.

  “Yes, I fucking see it.”

  “Anyone want to fill me in?” Boyd asked.

  “Yeah, same,” I said.

  “The plane back there with the red on the tail?” Duarte pointed at a plane in the back row. “It’s Raphael’s ninja mask.”

  “Bullshit.” I leaned close and squinted. They were right. Maybe. “That might be Raphael’s mask.”

  “Fuck off. That’s for sure his mask,” Laurel said.

  Boyd turned his head and grunted. “Oh. There. I see it.” He looked around at all of us. “That could be a ninja turtle mask.”

  “I’d say I’m ninety-nine percent sure,” Duarte said.

  “Naw. I’d say like 82.36 percent,” I said.

  “You’re the worst,” Laurel said.

  “I know.” I made eye contact with her and smiled. Then we both remembered what we were doing twenty minutes before and looked away. “Where are Malone and Reyes?” I asked.

  “Malone went to meet Agent Jalen. Reyes is on the phone.” Duarte nodded at the closed bedroom door.

  “Go get him. We need a tiebreaker,” I said.

  “What airport is that?” Laurel asked.

  “Placerville,” Boyd said.

  “Can we confirm it’s still there?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but I need to call Michelson and Malone before making a move. They will decide the best approach.”

  Duarte came back to the table with Reyes in tow.

  “What’s going on?” Reyes asked.

  “We think we found a small plane with a red eye mask reminiscent of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles painted on the tail,” Boyd said.

  “What?”

  “There’s a plane with a ninja mask painted on it. A red ninja mask. Like Raphael,” Laurel said.

  “No shit. Let me see.” Reyes stepped closer to the laptop. I backed up. Boyd leaned out of the space in front of the screen. “That could be a face mask.”

  “Right?” Laurel leaned over Reyes so she could see. As if she hadn’t already looked.

  “Do we have any other photos?” Reyes asked Boyd.

  “No. This is a promotional shot on the airport’s website,” Boyd said.

  Reyes stepped back and sat next to Boyd. “So the plane might not even be there?”

  “No way of telling yet.”

  “Still. This feels big, right?” I asked.

  “Oh, it’s big,” Laurel said. Then she checked herself. “Maybe.”

  “It’s a start. It’s something to investigate,” Reyes said.

  “Call Malone. And Michelson. Find out how they want us to proceed,” Duarte said to Boyd.

  Boyd reached for his phone. We stared at him. “Are you all planning on watching me call Malone?”

  Laurel and I looked at each other and shrugged. “Yeah, basically,” she said.

  Duarte nodded. “Yes.”

  “Yep,” Reyes said.

  “Nope.” Boyd stood and went into the room Reyes had just come out of.

  “Jeez. Touchy,” Laurel said.

  “So we just wait?” I asked.

  “Yeah. What were you hoping for? Rushing in guns blazing?” Reyes asked.

  “A little,” I said.

  “So you’re anti-cop until it’s inconvenient for you and then you want guns blazing?” he asked.

  “It’s El Dorado County. There aren’t any Black people for you guys to accidentally shoot or blame shit on.”

  “That’s fucking rich,” he said.

  “Christ. Calm down. My issue is with systemic police violence and power.” My issue was also with people who participated in that power structure, but I thought it was probably a bad idea to announce that in a safe house filled with cops.

  “Okay. No. We’re not doing this. We know where you both stand.” Laurel stepped between us. As if we were going to come to blows. Or maybe she just wanted to interrupt our flow. “Cash, you want another beer?”