Page 57 of A Stop in Time
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.