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Quinn could not believe that he found himself curious. He leaned back and twirled his pen in his hand, resigning himself to the fact he was now part of this conversation, and he was apparently going to see it through to whatever end. “What do you mean?”
“He looks at you like that too.”
Quinn blinked, not having expected that response.
“I guarantee that he’d get on his knees for you. That rookie has a thing for authority,” she drawled.
She stood up and walked away before Quinn could formulate a reply.
Wait, what?
“Well, he picked the right career?” Gideon said, tilting his head in contemplation. “Hey, what about me? I work here too.”
Quinn’s phone rang, saving him from having to answer that question. The name “Gloria” appeared on his screen. The lady whose grandson, Richard Burrows, had been the first victim of this clusterfuck; she was also the creator of those creepy-as-fuck dolls. He’d spoken to her just yesterday about getting her yard looked at, since Mal hadn’t yet gotten around to it, and Grady didn’t have an answer when asked about it. They needed to get her garden into a shape that wasn’t “fire hazard.”
“Gloria,” Quinn said warmly. “It’s lovely to hear from you. I was coming by tomorrow, wasn’t I? Did I get the days wrong?”
“No,” Gloria replied, strangely tinny through the phone. “No. But I was hoping that m-maybe you could—today? Would you have time n-now to come see me?”
Quinn frowned at the tremor in her voice. “Gloria, are you all right?” he asked. “Do you need medical assistance?”
“N-no, dear. Just need—need some help. With—with the gardening.”
“Of course,” Quinn replied. He checked the time and figured he’d put in enough hours today. “I’m on my way. I’ll be half an hour?”
“Fine, d-dear.”
Quinn worried his lip between his teeth as he grabbed his keys and wallet. She’d sounded weird. Had someone said something to her about her front lawn? They were getting it sorted. Some neighbours needed to learn the art of patience.
“Where are you going?” Grady asked.
“To see a man about a horse,” Quinn said. He shrugged his jacket on and flipped the files closed, teetering them on top of the ever-growing pile. “I’m clocking out for the day. See you on Monday; try not to arrest anyone.” He had no idea how long this would take and didn’t want to rush the poor woman. He might even end up having to do some of the lawn that night. He could get one of his men to bring him a change of clothes if that were the case.
“I only arrest people that deserve it, and I’m not planning to work this weekend. Mal said he has plans.”
Quinn bet. “Have fun.”
THERE WAS AN UNFAMILIAR black Mitsubishi parked in front of Gloria’s white Tesla when Quinn arrived. He parked behind Gloria’s car and curiously checked out the other car as he made his way to her front door.
The grass in the front yard of her small cottage home almost reached his knees. The weeds were having a party, and his back already hurt thinking about all the manual labour that would be required to get it back in some kind of decent shape.
If no one had complained about it yet, they were going to soon. The council would fine her if she didn’t get it under control, and that was an outcome Quinn wanted to avoid.
When he knocked, the door swung open on its own from the force. Quinn frowned. “Gloria?” he called out. He put a hand on the grip of his gun, flicking the clip open so he could easily access it. Something wasn’t right.
He pushed it the rest of the way open and stepped inside.
His dress shoes clicked on the wooden floors as he made his way through the house towards the kitchen. “Gloria? Are you in her—” He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence as the moment he stepped into the room, pain burst across the side of his face. His knees buckled and he hit the floor, shock shooting up his arms when his palms slapped on the tiling.
Dizziness swamped him when he tried to push himself to his feet, his nails scraping on the cold tiles. His temple throbbed, and blood obscured his vision. Had someone just—He grunted as he was kicked square in the chest, his ribs protesting the brutal treatment. His vision blurred and moved in and out as he found himself staring at the ceiling, flipped to his back from the momentum of the kick.
The barrel of a gun came into view first and then a blurry face that slowly came clear. It was a man he’d never seen before in his life. The stranger scowled down at him. Having a gun pointed at him was disconcerting, but it was the cruel sneer that made Quinn’s blood turn to ice.
This was the killer; Quinn was sure of it. Not quite the way he’d envisioned catching him. He would have preferred to have the advantage.
“You’re becoming a real pain in my ass, Detective Hughes,” his attacker said.
“Good,” Quinn wheezed. Where was Gloria? Was she all right? He turned his head, trying to see through the thick blood in his left eyelashes.
