Appearing contemplative for a moment, he peers into his coffee mug. “He saved my life.” His words are coated with what sounds like surprise. “He didn’t have to, but he did.”
I huff out a breath. “That sounds sketchy as hell.” My tone holds a biting edge, because I’m still pissed. “And then he sent you to me, implying that I have information on your sister.”
His jaw tenses, the lines framing his mouth deepening into grooves. “Yeah.”
“And where did this ‘Good Samaritan’ go after he saved you?”
He hesitates before admitting quietly, “I don’t know.”
I heave out an exasperated sigh. “Dude, your story has more holes in it than a bad soap opera plot.”
That muscle in his jaw flickers. “Still doesn’t explain why he’d tell me to come to you. That you could tell me about my sister’s death.”
I extend my arms out at my sides. “This is my business and my life. I live upstairs. You can ask anybody in town, and they’ll tell you I pretty much live and breathe work.”
A harsh laugh erupts from me. “Go ahead and play Sherlock Holmes if it’ll make you feel better, but you won’t find anything, because I don’t fucking break the law, let alone murder people.” I raise my eyebrows and add pointedly, “The closest I’ve ever gotten to that was spending last night with a gang member.”
His eyes flash, but that’s the only indication that my words hit their mark.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to hunt for some more tires and a rim so you can be on your way.”
I stalk out the back of the garage and into the salvage yard while fury and hurt battle it out for first place. But another emotion threatens the two, edging its way in.
Self-loathing for letting myself get pulled under by him. For thinking he was different.
For thinking I could be different.
That I could be more to him than just the scarred woman he met in a bar.
26
DANIEL
Goddammit.
Frustration has me drilling my fingers through my hair at the roots and tugging at it. I wish like hell I didn’t feel so fucking off-balance.
I didn’t get to where I am today by easily getting snowballed by liars. I’d bet hard money that Mac was telling me the truth…but why the hell would that guy back at the motel tell me she’d have answers about Emilia?
I feel like I’m in the middle of a motherfucking Where’s Waldo? and can’t decipher much of anything anymore.
He saved my life at the motel, but did he do that to gain some of my trust? In hopes that he’d plant a seed of doubt about Mac?
Scanning the garage, my eyes pore over every place I’d stash a weapon.
First, I inspect the three tall Craftsman tool chests against the wall, the rolling wheels locked in place. No knife or handgun is affixed to the back of it or underneath the base.
I check the fuse box area next, and anything else mounted on the garage walls, looking for hidden compartments.
There’s a square table off to the far side that holds the coffee maker and mugs that bear the salvage yard’s name, riddled with nicks in the ceramic. My now empty mug sits there.
I scour the entire garage that looks well-used and definitely isn’t a front. Not with the countless fresh grease smudges and oil stains along the floor.
I twist the handle of the side door leading from the garage to an air-conditioned section that appears to hold an inventory of smaller parts.
A fuck-ton of labeled bins spans the large rear wall while a counter separates it from a direct entrance for customers. Off to the far side and behind the counter, an open doorway sits dark. I venture toward it and flick on the light.
A couch that’s seen better days sits opposite two armchairs that look like they’re thrift store knockoffs. From inside this sad excuse for an employee break room, I spot another open door leading to a bathroom the size of a postage stamp.
Not a single thing appears out of place. Not as I scan each area, bathroom, break room, behind the counter, and back into the garage bays.
I find absolutely nothing.
My eyes inspect the space, and goddamn if a sick part of me isn’t hoping I’ll find something while another rejects the thought. Mac fucking unsettles me.
When my gaze lands back on one of her tall tool chests, this time, I zero in on the two sticky notes taped to the side. Curled at the edges, it’s obvious they’ve been here for a while.
“This morning, with her, having coffee.” —Johnny Cash, when asked for his description of paradise
The other says:
“Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home.” —Chief Tecumseh
Each are scrawled in neat but cursory feminine printing. These two quotes obviously struck a chord with her enough that she posted them in her workplace.
The thing is, they’re completely different. Where the one is serious and borders on either depressing or motivational—depending on interpretation—the other is almost romantic and so incongruent with her personality.
Mac comes sailing through the rear garage doors with her arms threaded through two thick tires, the rubber resting over each of her shoulders. Fuck if it isn’t a sight, her ponytail swinging back and forth with her jerky, angry movements.
A sheen of sweat clings to her forehead and hairline. She casts me a pissy look, tosses the tires down beside my car, and strides right back out.
She heads down the wide main aisle, and my eyes automatically drop to her ass. Christ, her ass looks damn fine in those jeans, and it makes me think—
When she hooks a left and disappears behind a small mountain of tires sitting beneath a makeshift awning, I give my head a shake, hoping it helps me get my shit together. I don’t know what it is with this woman, but she’s got me twisted up like a motherfucker.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and when I read the name on the screen, I don’t know whether to groan or laugh. I swear he’s got a sixth sense about things sometimes.
“Hey, man.”
“Just got some interestin’ news about a supposed gang-related shootin’ down where you said you’d be.” Bronson’s voice is filled with concern, but his next words have guilt battering away at me. “Thought for sure you’d check in by now and let us know you were okay.”
I pinch my eyes closed and let my chin drop to my chest. “Sorry. I got caught up in…” What can I even say at this point when I don’t even know what’s going on? “Some shit.”
“Figured as much.” Georgia’s voice sounds in the background, and he answers with, “Yeah, he’s okay, Red,” before asking, “You good to talk or no?”
To play it safe, I step out from the garage and stride a few feet toward the gravel driveway where it’s quiet aside from the occasional chirps from birds. I toss a quick glance behind me through the garage bay, but Mac’s still on the hunt for a rim.
“Yeah, I’m good for now.”
I survey the building, taking in the carport area off to the far right where a vehicle is parked with a protective cover over it. To the side of that is a set of stairs leading to an upper section that doesn’t span the entirety of the lower building. I wonder if that’s where she lives…