The One, Two Punch
Shea
“Tell me what just happened.”
Shea reached out to grab a passing Trudy by her arm. Dev had said his thanks, made his apologies and hastened after the deputy. Delilah had returned to the kitchen. The other patrons, who had paused for Brody’s dramatic entrance and seen the whole exchange, had resumed their chatter; only, now their faces were drawn with worry and they talked in hushed tones.
“Another accident at the mills,” Trudy reported distractedly, surveying the room herself.
“What does it have to do with Dev?” Shea’s voice sounded panicked, even to her own ears.
“Duff—you know, Sheriff Kate Duffy—she’s out on medical leave. Got hurt in the first accident down at Number Ten. She’d already deputized Dev by then, but after her injury, she made him acting Sheriff.”
By the time Trudy got to the end of her explanation, she had sat down in the opposite seat at the table, where Delilah had been just a minute before. Trudy seemed rattled. Everyone did. Under other circumstances, Shea would not have pried for information. But she was rattled for reasons of her own and needed to know more.
“Who would deputize a grocer?” Shea practically exclaimed.
Shea didn’t know whether it was the content of her question or her dramatic tone that relaxed the tense set of Trudy’s lips, causing them to melt into a wan smile.
“The Freshery is just his baby. But that’s not his only business. Dev has projects all over town. He buys up shops that are struggling, works with the owners to turn them around, then sells them back at a fair price.”
Something dawned on Shea and she asked the question slowly. “Does Dev own The Big Spoon?”
Trudy nodded. “Bought it from Mr. Jenkins’s kids. Neither of them live here anymore. Neither one of ‘em wanted it. If Dev hadn’t bought this place, it would’ve closed. And he knows what he’s doing, too. Back in San Francisco, he’s some sort of big-shot investor. I’ve never met a man with his finger in so many pies.”
Dev owns The Big Spoon.
Dev’s a big-shot investor, just like Keenan.
Dev’s an officer of the law.
“I’m sorry—I still don’t understand. If Dev’s an investor, and a grocer…how is he the sheriff? What about Deputy Brody?”
“Brody’s getting the hang of things, but he’s new. Takes things real serious. A little wet behind the ears. Dev never went to the academy, but he knows policing. He practically grew up in the Sheriff’s Office.”
Shea felt like she’d been punched in the gut, hard enough that she might lose the buffet of a dinner she’d just eaten, two bites of every dish at a time.
The date-like dinner you enjoyed with the town sheriff, her inner voice mocked. And every word of it was true. Some parts of it had felt like a date. She had enjoyed it. And Dev Kingston was the law, which meant that spending any more time with him than absolutely necessary was flirting with disaster.
And not just Dev—Shea had just agreed to spend hours each week helping Delilah, the sister of said sheriff and the person who knew tiny pieces of her story, albeit sanitized ones. Short of turning herself in, she’d just placed herself in the worst possible position she could be in in the town.
You shouldn’t have agreed to helping Delilah, just like you shouldn’t have agreed to the date.
But now that she knew Dev owned the place, it seemed even less like that’s what it was. It brought up another thing that scared her: when he’d pled for her help, she’d felt powerless against his charm.
“Sorry to pepper you with questions,” Shea recovered. “How much do I owe you for dinner?”
“Not a thing.” Trudy got up and made to resume her work. “Your food went on the house account and Dev took care of me before you even sat down.”
“Hullo?”
Shea managed to pick up on the very last ring before the call went to voicemail. Her voice was scratchy and rough, and carried the exact hoarseness and fatigue she might have anticipated the night before. It served her right for drinking bourbon at the restaurant then coming home, wallowing, and downing half a bottle of wine.
“Sorry. I know it’s early there. And I do know today is Saturday. Keenan is being difficult and none of this can wait.”
Tasha hadn’t bothered to identify herself. Her style was one of the things Shea liked most about her. If she was going to call you at 7:30 AM on a Saturday, she was going to get to the damned point.
“When has Keenan not been a colossal dick in all of this?” Shea sat up in bed a little and rubbed eyes that felt dry. She remained blessedly insulated from the light, thanks to blackout curtains that were still drawn. Patting around for her glasses on her nightstand, she slipped them on and gave her eyes a few seconds to adjust. Once she did, she located the glass of water she had wisely placed on the nightstand and took a long drink.
“They’re all Dr. Jekyll until you say the D-word and threaten to take their money. That’s when they turn into Mr. Hyde.”
“What’d he do this time?” Shea didn’t really want to know. But Tasha wouldn’t have brought it to her if it wasn’t something big.
“His attorney says they’re still considering mediation. That’s just what they want us to think. Something came in overnight that made me sure he’s stalling.”
“We always knew he was going to stall…” Shea pointed out. “He’s trying to wait me out.”
“Not this time. Keenan’s changed his strategy. He’s gearing up to argue emotional abuse.”
Shea nearly spit out her water. “As in, he’s going to try to claim that I emotionally abused him?”
Tasha’s news got Shea’s attention—more than that, it got her out of bed—easier said than done given Shea’s massive hangover headache.
“My guess is, he’ll build a narrative around how you abandoned him even when you were living together, despite his attempts to reconcile. He’ll say you abandoned the marriage, for Kent.”
Suddenly, Shea was livid. Upon reflection, she didn’t know why. A victim story like that sounded exactly like the sort of thing Keenan might try to pull. Only, it was never supposed to come to this. Keenan was supposed to wake up now that he knew she was serious; he was supposed to get over her; he was supposed to listen to his attorney, who should tell him to take his money and run.
“What are you basing this on?” Shea remembered Tasha’s initial claim that something had come in overnight.
“Three things hit all at once: someone tried to hack into the fan email and social media accounts you used for Kent, Keenan wrote you a cryptic letter and my eyes confirmed red flags.”
Tasha’s “eyes” were her own private detectives hired to keep an eye on Keenan. Apart from a hacking attempt on Shea’s personal email they were sure his people were behind, Keenan himself had been squeaky clean. They hadn’t found a shred of evidence that he was hiding assets, a mistress or pulling any other shenanigans that people tended to pull in a divorce. But Tasha had warned her early on they were also monitoring for perfectly legal red flags.