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As the back door closed behind us, I said, "Gotta love that about small-town living. No threat worse than telling your mom, whether you're ten, twenty or fifty years old."
Owen wheeled on me. "I want the money Krista gave you."
"First," I said. "It's Krista's money, not yours. But second, and more importantly, I didn't take a dime from her. As I'm sure you heard, she tried to hire me to find your daughter. I said I'd check a few things. I didn't accept money to do it."
"Because you're going to come back and make her think you've got a lead, and then she'll give you the money . . . right before you skip town with her savings."
"No, I was going to tell her--"
Owen cut me short as he advanced. "Save the bullshit. I'm not some dumb hick, and I'm not going to let you con Krista out of her money."
"I have no intention--"
He took another step, looming over me. "I'm giving you thirty minutes to leave town."
"Excuse me?"
His face came down to mine. "You heard me. If you and that boyfriend aren't past the town limits in thirty minutes--"
The back door banged open. Owen saw Ricky and jumped back, hands clenching into fists. Ricky just strolled out, coffee cup in hand. He looked over, saw us and took a sip before saying, "Everything okay?"
Owen snorted, and with that snort, he dismissed Ricky. Sure, he was as big as Owen, with well-muscled biceps peeking from under his T-shirt sleeves. Even the ink on those arms didn't mean shit. Just a city boy who's never hit anything scarier than a punching bag at his overpriced gym.
"Everything okay?" Ricky asked again before taking another sip of his coffee.
"Everything's fine," I said.
"You coming in soon? Hildy brought out freshly baked scones."
"I'm good. You go enjoy."
Ricky looked at Owen. "You want a scone? They smell great."
Owen's broad face screwed up. "No, I don't want a scone."
Ricky shrugged. "Your loss." He looked at me. "You expecting this to take much longer? I could save you one."
Owen strode over to him. "How about you just eat a fucking scone yourself. We're busy."
"I was just asking--"
"I don't want a scone. She doesn't want a scone. Go eat a scone and check your stocks or whatever your sort do."
"My sort?"
"The sort that rides a fucking Harley because he thinks it'll make him look badass. Did your daddy buy you that bike?"
"Actually, yes. When I joined the family business."
"You work for your daddy?" Owen sneered. "Figures."
I was about to point out that Owen worked for his father, but Ricky said, "Just part-time. I'm still a student. MBA. So I can take over the business one day, manage the stocks or whatever my sort do."
"Well, you know what your sort don't do? Look after their shit. They park a fancy bike like that where anyone can get to it."
"True."
"And they leave their fancy girlfriends where anyone can get to them while they go eat a fucking scone."
