Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
“Well, whaddawe have here?” Sheriff Menchin strode into Descartes, tipping his hat down in my direction. Theo Menchin was a thirtysomething, young Brad Pitt clone with a no-bullshit attitude I’d have admired if it hadn’t been directed at me. He slung a thumb into his belt and peered around. “Looks like some rich folks are gonna go hungry tonight.”
Behind him, a young, meaty officer snickered at his joke.
“Got a call in saying someone at this address wants to file a report.” Menchin popped one blond eyebrow. “What for?”
I threw my hand at the door. “This little vandalism stint is gonna cost me 20K at a minimum. That’s before the loss of income.”
“Tough sale.” Menchin clucked his tongue, unimpressed. “All I see here is a second-degree misdemeanor. A couple broken eggs on your window…”
“They broke the door.”
The sheriff smirked. “You sure? ’Cause I just saw our old buddy Rhyland here breaking a piece to walk in without opening it.”
“You serious right now?” My fists tingled, ready to plow into his smug face.
Menchin didn’t back down, eyeballing me right back. “I’m always serious, Casablancas. And I’m seriously pissed off with what you’re doing to this town. Allison says crime is gonna get out of control. My department doesn’t have the budget or capacity for this kind of crowd.”
“Regardless of what you think about me, you need to investigate this shit.”
“I’m not telling you how to flip a burger, so don’t tell me how to run this town.”
He knew damn well I wasn’t flipping burgers. It was just his way of flipping me off. “Fine,” I bit out. “I’ll talk to my guy at the FBI. Tell him how you handled this case.” I had no guy at the FBI. In fact, I was so antisocial, the inn’s cleaners barely knocked on my door.
Menchin sighed. “D’you have any clear footage of who did this?”
“No, but—”
“Shoot,” he said sarcastically. “Investigation closed.” Ambling deeper into the restaurant, he took in an eyeful. I could tell he’d never been anywhere this fancy. Never tasted food like what I served. He was antagonized by everything this place represented. Wealth, power, sophistication. Menchin ran a finger over the corroded stone wall. “Gonna be real honest with you, Casablancas. We’re a little understaffed right now, what with Thanksgiving and Christmas comin’ up. My to-do list is long and growin’ by the minute. We don’t investigate petty crime unless we have a clear lead.”
“This shit’s beyond petty. I have a stalker. The same vandal also left a dead coyote on my property and slashed my tires.”
Menchin sucked his teeth. “Sounds real romantic, Casablancas, and we’ll sure keep an eye out for a bunny boiler with a crazy zing in their eyes. Someone who buys eggs by the dozen. Now, who might that be?” He tapped his chin, turning to his sidekick.
Sidekick beamed, delighted to be acknowledged. “Mrs. Summerford buys three cartons every other day.”
Mrs. Summerford was seventy-two. And a baker.
Menchin snapped his fingers Sidekick’s way. “Can you pin her picture at the center of our suspect board?”
“We don’t have a suspect board.” Sidekick slanted his head like a confused dog.
“Humor me, Dalton.” Menchin clapped his shoulder fatherly. “Oh, and add all those fancy red lines too. Nothing but the best for our famous friend.”
This was my cue to give Menchin a piece of my mind, but Taylor beat me to it.
“You can’t just brush this off.” The kid stepped forward, looking upset on my behalf. “This man is a taxpaying citizen, not to mention one of the most critically acclaimed CDCs in the world.”
“Not sure what CDC is, but I know he’s an A-S-S.” Menchin tsked. “Which reminds me, that fancy-lookin’ guy with the tight suit and brick-sized teeth was doing the rounds the other day, passin’ around a petition to build more roads. Including a highway.”
Jesus. Tate was such a douche, he was practically a bidet. I hadn’t even signed the contract and he was already trying to build roads here.
“I’ll handle it,” I hissed through clenched teeth.
“Good. You do that, and I might sniff around for that eager admirer of yours.” Menchin winked, flicking invisible lint off my shoulder. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Ain’t nobody needs roads here.”
I was left simmering in my rage, in an out-of-commission restaurant.
CAL
oBITCHuary: I was promised groveling.
oBITCHuary: Hey, are you dead?
oBITCHuary: Please don’t be dead.
oBITCHuary: I hate to admit it, but…I’ve gotten a little attached.
CAL
“I Will Always Love You”—Whitney Houston
“Wakey, wakey! Time to put those hideous leggings to good use.”
I knew that voice.
That voice berated, belittled, and bewitched me at times.
It was the voice of a man who had run with me every morning—until recently, at least.
Of someone who’d kissed me to the point my knees were still weak and my heart still beat irregularly every time I played the moment in my head, and I played that moment in my head at least twice a minute.