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Figure out. Right. There had to be an investigation. But that was her, wasn’t she an investigator?
A knock on the door silenced conversation.
“No more reporters,” her father said when a man she didn’t know went to answer the door.
Her door. Wasn’t this her apartment?
He got little chance to address whoever was there because the woman rushed in with full entitlement. Imogen. She rushed through everyone to grab Lachlan into her arms.
“Do you know how difficult it is to find you when you keep moving around?” Imogen asked, sadness in her censure. “Oh, why didn’t you call me?”
“Where’s Jagg?”
“Forget about that, would you?” she asked, grabbing the collar of his shirt. “What happened?”
“That’s what I want to know,” Sersha said.
It was funny her father said no reporters because that was exactly what Imogen was. Just like her. They worked at the same paper.
“We don’t know,” Lachlan said, addressing them both. “We don’t know who’s responsible.”
“That wasn’t the question,” she said. “What happened?
“How was he killed?” Imogen asked. “When was he found? When was he last seen?”
Yes, yes, and yes, Imogen got it. Just because they couldn’t say who didn’t mean there was no information.
“We’re still piecing that together,” her father said.
“Why does that sound canned?” she asked and went back into her kitchen. “Like a line you’d feed a reporter?” Ignoring whatever was in the mug, she took a bottle of whiskey from the top shelf and poured herself a measure. Gulping it down, she ignored the sounds of disapproval coming from her father’s direction. “Okay.”
“Where are you going?” Lachlan asked when she grabbed her purse from the counter.
“To do my job,” she said and stopped in front of Imogen. “You in?”
“Oh, yeah, absolutely.”
“Immie,” Lachlan appealed to her, but she stayed at her flank. “You shouldn’t—”
“We don’t need official help,” Imogen said. “We’ll figure it out on our own.” Leaving the apartment, they got out onto the street and into a cab. “What’s your plan? Where do we start?”
“The same place I always start when I need information from the street,” she said and gave the cab driver an address Imogen would recognize. Once they were on the way, she got her phone from her purse. Ninety-six missed calls. A hundred and forty-three text messages. She closed her eyes and centered her strength. “Can I talk to Jagg?”
“Yeah,” Imogen said. “I can call him, or we can go over there.”
“How are things between him and Strat?”
Imogen squirmed. “Better now Ford’s on board.”
“If this is uncomfortable—”
“No! You helped me out, I’m going to help you. What about Tulip? She could help too. Weren’t you working with her? I heard you got kicked out of Stag.”
“Yeah,” she said, fixating on the windshield beyond the driver. “Last night.”
Were any of those missed calls or texts from Connel? She couldn’t see him now. Couldn’t go to him. It was still too raw for them both. Maybe if they hadn’t so recently fallen back into old habits, asking for his comfort would be a possibility.
They’d been so good, keeping their distance, since their breakup. Why had she gone back to Stag and undone all that progress? If she called now, he’d think she was a crazy stalker or a nutty bunny boiler. Even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t be fair to lean on him while their association was a secret.
