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“Just shut up and make love to me, Justin. Right now. Forget everything around us. Just make me feel like you did last night.”
After making me feelexactlylike he had the night before—times ten—Justin and I packed up what few provisions we had and loaded them into the SUV.
Even with snow chains secured on all four tires, it took three hours to make it back to Falcon Creek, a drive that should have taken twenty minutes. At least once every mile, Justin had to get out and shovel a path through a drift or move a tree limb so that we could pass.
I was worried about him. I knew he hadn’t slept much in the last few days, which in itself is unhealthy, but after shoveling snow for hours, his body had to be past the point of exhaustion. We’d eaten nothing but protein bars and water. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot and colored with dark circles.
I knew from experience how exhaustion, both physical and emotional, can confuse proper decision-making. With Justin, I had a feeling it also triggered his temper and short fuse as well.
Overhead, a blanket of dark, brooding clouds hung low in the sky, fitting for the mood inside the SUV.
“Remind me again what we’re doing,” I asked, wringing my hands.
“We are going to have a chat with Ron Fitch.”
“A chat, huh?” I cocked a brow.
“Yep.”
I began counting off on my fingers. “To, one: confirm he is working for Black Cell. Two: figure out who killed your contact. And three: figure out if he tipped off whoever kidnapped me.”
“And four, see if he knows where Kusma is.”
“What if he’s not at the diner?”
“You said he works every day.”
“Yeah, but if he is responsible for any one of the things I just stated, don’t you think he would have skipped town?”
“Not if he was ordered not to.”
I chewed on that for a second. “And you really think he’s just going to tell you everything?”
Justin shot me a look.
“Oh.You’re going to interrogate him.”
“If he doesn’t talk, yes.”
I could only imagine what a man who would willingly drag a knife down his own face could do to a bad guy.
* * *
It was late morning by the time we arrived at Creek House Diner. Ron’s truck was parked in his usual spot, in the back corner.
Through the window, I could see Velma and her trademark gray bun. She appeared to be making a fresh pot of coffee for the only diner in the restaurant, an elderly man who I recognized as a local. Eddie, I think, was a widower who lived just a few miles from the town center. He came in every single morning for a carafe of coffee and two blueberry muffins.
Justin parked behind Ron’s truck, blocking him in. He cut the engine, then turned to me. “Do exactly as I say, when I say, do you understand?”
“Yes.” My heart began to pound.
“Let’s go.”
Justin grabbed my hand as we met at the back of the vehicle and held it tightly as we crossed the parking lot. Not a sweetI love you so muchkind of squeeze, but more of astay close or elsegrip.
The steel back door of the diner was unlocked, as usual. I’d chastised Ron many times about being so cavalier with our security, but he never listened. He would definitely regret that now.
I was greeted by the familiar sounds and smells of my workplace. Old country music, fresh coffee, and grease.
