Page 32

CHAPTER 32

THE BIG GUY EYED my tattoos and pink hair, then left his collected items on the gun section’s counter and followed me without hesitation. Maybe Troy had told him about me. Or maybe George had decided I was a trustworthy member of the weirdo club. I’ve always dressed and styled myself for me exclusively, but in my previous time as a defense lawyer, I’d found that my visible tattoos opened as many doors as they closed, particularly in my work with young criminals.

As we traversed the sea of checkouts, I told George to switch off his phone, and he did. I looked back across the store and glimpsed Baby and Dave talking animatedly, him trying to push forward, her trying to convince him to stay put.

I walked Troy’s friend to a far corner of the store. “Where is he?” I said to the big guy. Despite his size, he backed away, and I suddenly realized how young he was. Mid-twenties at most.

“I don’t know where Troy is.” George shook his head, his eyes on the ground. “I haven’t seen him since — ”

“Nope,” I snapped. “Don’t play dumb. We don’t have a lot of time. I need to get my hands on Troy and convince the police assigned to watch him that he hasn’t run off. Otherwise they’ll order a BOLO and the world will hear about it, and it won’t be pretty.”

“I just — ”

“You were buying clothes for him just now,” I said. “Supplies. He called you at work and told you what to buy for him. Where to meet him.”

The big, bearded guy just kept shaking his head. Then, without warning, he burst into tears. I was stunned. His exterior — the heavy brow, dark beard, shoulders as wide as a refrigerator — had spoken of an inner stoicism that wasn’t actually there. I was in the presence of a big kid pushed right to the edge.

“Listen.” I put my hand on his arm and watched him wipe tears away with the back of his hairy hand. “I’m Team Troy. Okay? I’m here because I want to help him too.”

He looked at me, his eyes huge and wet.

“I’m his private investigator.” I put my hand out. “Rhonda Bird.”

“George Crawley. Troy and I work the callouts together.”

“You’re okay, George.” I rubbed his arm. The urge to console the upset, overgrown boy was hitting all my newly formed mother triggers, raw and ragged since Baby came into my life. “You’re all right, buddy.”

“Troy didn’t do this,” he whispered. Nearby shoppers were trying, though not very hard, to avoid staring at us. “He didn’t kill Daisy. I’m his best friend. I know the guy. He’s innocent.”

George drew a huge breath. “This is all Daisy,” he said. “The escape. The box. Everything.”