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She has every right to worry. I do too. I’m not used to having a “boyfriend,” especially a hot celebrity one with a wild-boy past who lives thousands of miles away.
“Derek Baucom,” I answer. “For a bar manager, he pours nothing but bullshit. I’ve been to The Pelican twice, and he’s knee-deep in it.”
Both times I interviewed Derek about the victims from that bar, he squirmed. I can see it behind his fake-ass smile and “I never saw those women before” refrain.
He’s lying. There’s something in his eyes that bothers me too. Like he’s delighted in my presence, like he has something on me, but how? He doesn’t know me. His records confirm he just moved here from New York. And yes, he owns a navy and white striped shirt. He wore it the second time I interviewed him. Unfortunately, wearing long sleeves in June isn’t a crime.
Gentry Evans as co-owner of the bar that Derek Baucom works for? It’s not the evidence we need. TJ hanging out at that bar? It’s not proof enough, either.
I smile, thinking of my running joke with Jameson—they’re all leads.
And it’s my deal. I’ll lead those men into hell with me when I catch them.
“What about your other devil?” Penny asks. “Will he dare to return?”
“We’re fine. He’s working in LA, and I’m working here. At least for a few weeks.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
Shit, every time. She knows me too well.
“Yes, I miss him. I confess—Ice Queen Cade Bryant has finally melted for a man.”
“You’re not an Ice Queen. You’re a big softie. And anyone would melt for him. Just don’t be one of those women. Don’t disappear for a man.”
“Oh, I won’t.”
Because I have two other men I obsess over.
I don’t tell her that.
“Excuse me, ma’am? Would you like a manicure too?”
The young woman beside my chair asks so softly I can’t refuse. “Sure. Thank you.” I offer her my hand.
She starts filing my nails, and I notice it. Her hands are shaking. I glance up. Her eyes meet mine, and she’s not trying to hide it. She’s scared. And she wants me to know.
“Can you show me where the restrooms are, please?” I ask, knowing exactly where they are.
“Yes.”
She steps back from the chair, letting me slide orange slippers on as she leads the way. We turn the corner and walk down a hallway where the restrooms are at the end. She turns around and peeks around my shoulder. It’s clear. No one followed us.
“You’re police, right?”
“Yes,” I answer, “but we’re not here for any of you. I’m here to help another woman.”
I know a few of these women are undocumented. Their lives here are so precarious, like hell if I’d do anything but protect them.
“My sister.” Tears well in her eyes. “She’s missing.”
“Does she work here?”
“No. She cleans for a rental company that has vacation condos.”
“Which one?”
“Sunset Rentals.”
