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I bounce down the stairs, tying my hair back into a loose ponytail as I go. The back room of my shop is a little-known secret — one that I’ve managed to keep quiet for the most part. I have a few elite clients that pop in now and again to pick up the latest tactical gear and weaponry (the most recent being the newly resurrected Fox Fitzpatrick). It’s not the most legitimate of black-market business practices but when you’re in as much debt as I am, you play to your strengths. My military expertise makes me a hell of a lot more trusting than the street gangs around here.
I squeeze behind the counter of my shop with a dusting cloth wrapped around my hand, ready to attack my back room without mercy.
The hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
I pause, sensing the slow, quiet movement smack dab in the middle of my very closed pawnshop.
“Hello, Ms. Fawn.”
I scan every reflective surface around me, sizing her up before I even turn around. She’s petite like me but, also like me, not the kind you want to fuck with. Tight jeans, even tighter black shirt. Sporty hair the color of spilled fruit juice on white carpet. And her eyes. Knowing, experienced.
Deadly.
I turn around and she grins at me. “We’re closed on Sundays,” I say.
“I know.”
“Come back tomorrow.” I toss the cleaning cloth onto the counter between us.
“I’m not here for…” she points a finger and draws a line across the nearest shelf, “whatever the hell this stuff is.”
“Then, what do you want?”
She wipes dust on her jeans. “I’m looking for your husband.”
This must be Lilah Hart. My brain works in the background, calculating how fast it would take for me to secure a reasonable weapon. I’ll need five seconds minimum to get to the back room, but she could easily scale the counter in less than three.
“I don’t have a husband.”
“The state of California seems to think otherwise.”
I shrug. “We separated years ago. I haven’t seen him since.”
Her little cartoony eyes squint at me. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“He flew into town early this morning,” she says. “He didn’t stop by?”
“Nope.”
“Bummer.” She heaves a tiny, defeated breath. “Any idea where he’d go?”
“It’s a big city. Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have some work to do and you’re trespassing, so if there’s nothing else…”
Lilah’s lips twitch to the side but she doesn’t move. “Actually, I didn’t just come here looking for Bartholomew Carson. There’s a much bigger fish I’m after.”
I point behind her. “In that case, I have a decent selection of antique fishing lures. Take your pick.”
Impatience coats her painted eyes, but it’s gone just as soon as it appears. “Caleb, where is Fox Fitzpatrick?”
I tilt my head, feigning confusion. “He’s dead.”
She rolls her eyes. “Try again, honey.”
“No, really.” I chuckle. “Two years ago. He was killed in action overseas. I was there.”
Lilah inhales all the way to the bottom of her lungs and takes a short step closer to the counter. She lays her fingers against the glass, leaning over in a decent attempt at intimidating me. “I know that’s bullshit, Caleb. I know he’s alive. I know your husband made contact with him in Colorado a few weeks ago. Now, I’m tired and I’m cranky and I’m getting really bored with this shit.”
