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“She said they were.” I stop at the front of the truck and lean on the bumper. “She was getting postcards or some shit. And her mom texted last night to apologize.”
“Well, I dunno what to tell you, bro. Do you get jealous about all the other dudes she’s been dating since you left?” His voice turns a little playful. “There were a lot.”
“No.” Frustrated, I wrap my free hand around the bumper. “I don’t ask, she doesn’t tell. I’m not the jealous guy who’ll punish her for dudes looking at her. In fact, I kinda get along with that other one.”
“Other one?”
“The last dude. Jason.”
My eyes narrow as a truck, much like Jase’s but without the charred destruction left over from a fire, putters past. “Wait. Tell me the names of the dudes.”
“Her dates?” Preston laughs. “Yeah. No.”
“You have street footage and know where she is right now, which means you know who she’s dated, Preston. Tell me their names.”
“So you can pretend not to be jealous, but set their rides on fire too?”
“Exactly!” I snarl. “But it’s not me setting fires.”
I shove away from the truck and sprint past Rizz as he wanders out of the kitchen and into the garage. My boots hit the concrete floor as I jog down the hall, then I push into Nix’s office and snatch a pen and paper from his desk.
“Hey!” He leans across to steal the pen back, but I bat him away and sit on the edge of his visitor seat. “What the f—”
“She was out to dinner with the dude Thomas.” I write his name down. “Fire alarms went off, and it sure as shitwasn’tme who pulled them. Dated Jase.” I write the next and ignore Nix’s curious stare. “Torched truckandkitchen.” I drag the phone from my ear and hit speaker, freeing up my other hand. Setting the device on Nix’s desk, I fix the paper beneath my hand. “Who else?”
“Axel…”
“Pres! Who else? Run through the fucking list.”
He draws a deep breath, then exhales so the gust hits the speaker of his phone. “Guy named Clarke. Sells cars for a living.”
I write his name down. “What happened to him?”
“How do you know something ha—”
“What happened?” I snarl. “Just answer the damn question, Danes.”
“His mother died, so he moved out of town to see to her estate.”
My eyes whip to Nix’s and burn. “How’d she die, Pres?”
“You are not seriously suggesting it was foul play, right? You’re reaching.”
“Answer the question,” I bite out. “Then let the cops decide. How’d she die?”
He makes a sound in the back of his throat that starts out as part groan, part growl, but as he reads whatever pops up on his screen, it turns to something akin to a squeak. “She was crossing the street after leaving her morning yoga lesson. Healthy fifty-five-year-old woman. Struck down by a car.”
I slam my pen to the paper and sit back in my chair. “Who came before him?”
“Dustin. And before you ask,shedumpedhim. Because he was being weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Sending flowers to the shop twice a day, every day, for weeks on end. Driving by her place at night. Calling and hanging up. He sent her texts telling her all sorts of weird shit, like he was in love, and she was officially icked out.”
“And has anyone confirmedhewas the one who sent the flowers? Didhesend the texts? Was ithimdriving by at night?”
“Who the hell else could it b—”
