Page 110 of It Runs in the Family

“No,” I said in frustration. “I’m saying I’m the one with everything to lose. You owe me absolutely nothing, Boone.”

He turned away from me, watching the front door, his expression turning serious again. “I’m not gonna cut you out, Iris.”

“But that has to be against a million regulations and rules for you.”

His lips pressed together, and he pushed out a breath. He seemed to be weighing his answer before he said, “Since I’m undercover, I can do things I couldn’t do otherwise.” He swung his gaze back to me. “As long as it doesn’t put you in any danger, we can work together, but we have to trust each other.”

I knew he was right, but that didn’t make it easier to agree.

Earnestness filled his eyes. “Iris, I would never put you in danger. If I think you’re in danger or will be, I’ll tell you and we’ll work something else out.”

It would be so easy to say yes.

Sensing my hesitation, he added, “What if what you’re not telling me could be the one thing that saves Selena?”

He had a point.

I would have told him so, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw a sheriff’s patrol car park in the lot out front. I started to freak out when I recognized Garrett getting out and heading for the entrance.

“Oh God.” Did I have time to push Boone out of the seat and hide in the bathroom? Garrett wasn’t wasting any time getting to the door.

“My cousin’s comin’ in,” I said in a panic. “He can-not see me with you.”

Confusion clouded Boone’s eyes, but as Garrett started to open the door, I slid down the seat, then under the table, and hoped my cousin didn’t look too closely.

Boone glanced at the door, then grabbed his backpack and set it on the seat across from where he was sitting, propping it up to partially conceal that side of the table.

“Excuse me,” Garrett said, sounding closer than I would’ve liked. “Can I speak to your manager?”

“You’re talkin’ to her,” I heard the woman who’d taken our order say. “What can I do for you, Deputy?”

“I’m Deputy Garrett Riggs. I’m here to ask about your employees. Do you have a woman in her twenties—Caucasian with short, light brown hair, and brown eyes—who works here?”

Boone’s leg tensed.

“Nope,” the manager said.

“You sure?” Garrett asked.

“I’m in charge of hirin’ and firin’,” she said with a hint of attitude. “I’m sure.”

“What about in the past? Say, over the last year or two? Her hair could have been longer when she worked here. She has a small mole on her right cheek.”

She was quiet for several seconds. “No. I’ve been here for three years, and we don’t have much turnover. We have a girl in her twenties, but she’s blond and has blue eyes.” She paused. “Why’re you askin’?”

“We’re looking into a report of a missing person,” he said, sounding polite but official.

“Sorry I couldn’t help.”

“Here’s my card,” he said. “If you think of something, will you give me a call?”

“Sure.”

They were both quiet, and I thought Garrett was leaving, but then Boone lifted his foot and planted it on the seat across from him, in front of the backpack.

A pair of shoes attached to brown uniform pants appeared in front of the table.

I held my breath. Boone was trying to hide me with his leg.