Page 12 of Playing With Temptation

“Good to meet you.” Lindy smiled.

“You, too.”

“Lindy’s an amazing artist. She runs our art program here,” Josie continued.

The art program I was there to pitch a marketing plan for.

“Josie sent me some pictures of your work,” I told Lindy. “You’re very talented.”

The pink that hit her cheeks was adorable. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me for telling the truth.”

Josie flashed Lindy a sweet smile. “I’m giving Rainy a tour while we wait for Sophie. Meet us in the computer room in five?”

Lindy held up her paint-covered hands. “Sure thing. I just need to wash up.”

Josie continued down the hall, turned left, and stopped in front of a wall of windows. Six men were playing basketball in the gym, three of whom were facing me, and holy wow they were hot.

“The gym isn’t open to the public,” Josie started. “But we allow the volunteers to use it at their leisure.”

I suddenly had the urge to volunteer at the Hope Center and learn how to play basketball.

The tallest of the group glanced in our direction and, jumping Jack Flash—with his chiseled jawline, if he wasn’t a model he’d missed his calling.

Unfortunately, Josie was once again on the move, ending my hot-sweaty-man perusal. It was a sad reality I lived in a perpetual state of look-but-do-not-touch.

It had been so long since I’d had a date with anyone beyond trusty-always-get-the-job-done Bob, I wouldn’t even know what to do with a real man.

CHAPTER FOUR

“I heard about Hendrix,” Echo said while dribbling the basketball.

“Yeah, it was messy. Close range head shot, with a Smith & Wesson Model 500,” Ethan confirmed.

Messy was one way to describe brain matter splattered on the wall from a high-caliber revolver.

“Still no leads on the missing girl?” Echo asked.

Samantha Williams. Thirty-one, single, no kids. According to her friends, she was generous to a fault. Her coworkers thought she was hardworking. Her family loved their daughter, sister, and aunt. Her mother was beside herself with worry. Her father was beside himself with rage—anger that had taken root and grown until it exploded out of his Smith & Wesson Model 500.

“Hendrix’s garage read like a criminal superstore,” I told Echo. “Plastic sheathing on the shelf. Next to that, duct tape, painter’s tape, a box of gloves, rolls of twine, and rope. If that’s not enough to get a cop’s attention, the box of disposable polypropylene coveralls complete with hood and foot covers would’ve pinged.”

“So, he’s your suspect,” Echo surmised.

Ethan shrugged. “The shelf down from the how-to-get-away-with-murder kit are paint cans. And it looks like a bedroom has been freshly painted. Boxes are still stacked in the middle of the room covered with a tarp.”

“We’re looking into when the supplies and paint were purchased,” I rejoined. “Williams blowing the back of Hendrix’s head all over the living room wall has left us with no suspect. If he took her and she’s still alive, we’re on a tight clock to find her before she dies from starvation, dehydration, or the elements. If Hendrix killed her, she’s not buried in his backyard. Techs have his phone now. We might get lucky with the GPS or he could’ve been smart enough to leave his phone at home while he dumped her. Truck’s a bust, it’s too old for onboard tracking.”

We lost Ethan’s attention when the gym door opened. “Look who decided to finally show up.”

“About time you hose monkeys graced us with your presence,” Echo tossed out the friendly jab as Brice Lancaster, Jackson Clark, and West Myers made their way toward our huddle.

“Aw, look at that, boys, Echo’s still salty he failed his firefighter’s exam and had to settle on being a cop,” West returned the quip.

West’s quick reflexes saved him from taking Echo’s pass in the gut. “Put up or shut up, ladder jockey.”

“The shit talk is on point today.” Ethan chuckled.