“Or the other thing you and Jake do when you’re alone,” Harlow said.
“Or that.”
That was a relief, but it didn’t change my apprehensions. “It might still be best to distance yourselves as much as possible.”
“No can do,” Piper said.
“Mrs. Hyde—” I started, busting out my cop-voice.
And getting exactly nowhere.
She held up a hand. “I appreciate your concern. And, trust me, none of us are planning any trips to dark alleys, clandestine meetings in dingy underground garages, or secret middle-of-the-night investigations in the dark, forbidden woods. But we’re at Rye all the time. Harlow still works there on occasion. Rhys is at parties, get-togethers, and whatever else when he can slip away from the bar for a few hours. If he’s on a radar, then so are we. Distancing ourselves right now won’t do anything but make it easier for whoever to target all of us due to a lack of communication.”
She had a good point. I hated to admit that because I would rather the target list stay at me and Rhys with question marks by both of our names since we weren’t even sure it wasn’t all random. Still, she was correct.
“Has there been anything suspicious with your bakery or the garage?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“My husband’s business has had some issues,” Joss said.
I had no clue who her husband was or what his business was, but that didn’t stop me from asking, “What’s been happening?”
She tilted her head, her high ponytail bobbing with the movement. “Fake complaints, code violations, anonymous tips called into the police with bogus claims, delivery issues.”
Other than that last one, the list sounds familiar…
“Does he own a bar?” I asked, something scratching at the back of my brain. That itch that set me on alert and kicked my curiosity up to a twenty. If they were both bar owners getting messed with, it would help narrow down the suspect pool to overlapping enemies. Or maybe just a fellow bar owner looking to take out some competition.
“Kind of,” she said. “Strip club.”
“I—oh.” I wasn’t sure why I was thrown by that. I knew better than most not to judge a person by their appearance. And it wasn’t like there was anything inherently wrong with strip clubs. Some of them, for sure, but not every last one.
But in her cute outfit and hot pink Converse, Joss didn’t look like the wife of a nudie bar owner. She looked like the epitome of a wholesome girl-next-door. Someone I would’ve watched my mouth around for fear of offending her—or getting chided like I was a kid.
“Does he have any suspects?” I asked.
“Not really. Rival club owners, flaky dancers, rowdy customers who’ve gotten their face on the banned wall.”
Again, that sounded familiar.
“I figured I’d tell you since there are already police reports,” she added.
Huh.
Something about her phrasing made me wonder if she would have shared otherwise.
And I got the feeling it was a no.
Loyalty seemed to be a foundation of that group.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” I muttered.
It could’ve been nothing, but…
I just didn’t know. There were so many variables and questions with that case.
A case that I still wasn’t even sure was actually a case and not an inconvenient prank coincidentally timed with a random attack.
