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Pascal Gagnon.
Suit-wearing pain in my ass.
“We’re getting ready for your arrival. And, well, I’m not sure how to explain this.”
“Get to the point, Gagnon. It’s 6:45 and I’m uncaffeinated.”
“My siblings came up with an idea that’ll help explain your presence.” His words were choppy, hesitant, so unlike the cocky asshole businessman I had encountered three weeks back.
The way his eyes roved over me at dinner, as if he was studying every inch of my body and soul and finding me lacking, had consumed me. What was his problem? And why was I so eager to help him?
“They think we should introduce you to the town as my girlfriend.”
I turned down Congress Street, toward the old mansion, mentally computing how much time I had before I had to start my workday. I was headed up to Lovewell this weekend, so I was wrapping up as many loose ends as I could.
“Okay,” I said, digging the ancient keys out of that annoying tiny pocket in the back of my leggings.
“Huh. I thought you’d put up a fight.”
I threw my hip into the sticky door, then headed directly for the kitchen. It was huge and bright and thoroughly out of date. However, Liv had invested in a fancy robot coffee machine that could be programmed using a smart phone app. That meant my espresso was ready and waiting for me when I walked through the door.
“Listen, I’m a professional. A good cover is necessary for any investigation. It’ll be fun. It’s been a while since I had to do deep cover.”
“This isn’t deep cover. Jesus. It’s a white lie that’ll keep the investigation a secret.”
I took my first sip and did my best to suppress the small moan that came out of my mouth. I wasn’t particularly fancy. There was no collection of designer purses or obsession with the state of my nails. No expensive laser facials for me or Egyptian cotton sheets. I had one luxury. One thing I needed. Coffee. Good stuff, prepared correctly, consumed at regular intervals throughout the day.
“You okay over there?” he asked, his voice strained.
I ignored him, closing my eyes and visualizing the caffeine hitting my bloodstream. “I’m fine. And think about it. Lovewell is a small town, yes?”
“The fucking smallest,” he replied.
“And rumor has it you northerners don’t love outsiders. Especially ones from the city. Me poking around for weeks. Asking questions and showing up everywhere. That’s going to arouse suspicion.”
“Certainly.”
“And my ability to gather evidence would be impeded by that. We could blow this whole thing if it gets out that I’m a PI investigating your dad’s murder. Which, by the way, the town thinks was an accident.”
I gave it a moment to sink in. Did I want to play fake girlfriend? Of course not. But it would ultimately make me more effective at my job.
Plus, Pascal Gagnon was distractingly handsome. I could fake it for a couple of weeks for the sake of justice.
“If I start walking around asking questions, people will be suspicious. I don’t know much about small towns, but I assume someone new would raise eyebrows. I realize you have a low opinion of your hometown, but surely the people aren’t complete morons.”
“No. Not at all. You’re right. If any suspicion arises, the whole community will know your blood type within a few hours.”
In the last two weeks, I’d finally caught my cheater, and I’d closed out a few other cases. Now I was ready to put everything I had into Lovewell. Not only because it was the most interesting and challenging case I’d been offered since going out on my own, but because I empathized with the Gagnons.
What I had learned about Frank Gagnon had made me even more determined to find out what had happened to him. By all accounts, he was generous, kind, and deeply involved in his community. He coached sports and volunteered, and he was active in his church.
All while single-handedly running a multi-generational family timber business.
I wanted this. Not just to satisfy my own curiosity and desire for justice, but to help the family and the community that had been devastated by this loss.
I put him on speaker as I jogged up the stairs, peeled off my sweaty shirt, and rifled through my closet.
How many layers would I need up north?
