Page 31

Holy mother of hotness. I can count his ab muscles through the fabric of his shirt. Somewhere in the world, a calendar is missing Mr. June. My mouth goes dry, and I lick my lips. Lift my gaze to his face. The expected sunglasses hide his eyes. A brow peeks above one of the lenses, and the corner of his mouth hitches with an amused smile.

He holds the door open for me and gives me his hand. I don’t need the help but take his offering anyway. That now familiar tingle grazes over my skin like an invisible touch. Heat flushes my face and pools in my belly. What is it about this man that has me either aroused or irritated or both? Is it because I’ve been daydreaming about him for the last fifteen years?

Jesus! I shake off the feeling and close the car door. Lynn catches up to us and salutes the detective like she’s a soldier or something.

He smiles and looks back at me with a set of heavy-duty keys dangling from his hand. “Ready?”

I stuff my hands in my back pockets. “Yeah.”

Lynn laces her arm through mine.

He tilts his head toward a smaller gate in the fence. “I came in earlier and signed in for the keys.” He unlocks a heavy-duty bolt, removes the chain holding the gatepost closed, and pushes the gate open, gesturing for Lynn and me to go through.

I step into the lot. A weight settles on my shoulders. Too many impressions calling for my attention. The air sizzles with regret and desperation. Past bad decisions hang over the lot like a low cloud. “No crazy dog named Cujo to protect the place?”

That earns me a laugh. “No dogs on the premises. The security cameras are better at keeping people out than a dog would.” He points at several poles spaced around the perimeter. Small pods on the tops glint in the sun.

I stop. I didn’t think of the cameras. “Wait. If the cameras are recording us right now, how will we keep this—me—a secret?”

He presses his lips together. “Yeah, about that. I was thinking of everything you said, and there might be times like this right now where we will be seen together in a situation that can’t be explained as just meeting an old friend.”

I cross my arms. “When were you going to tell me this?”

He scratches the back of his head. Is that a touch of color on his cheeks? “I . . . didn’t think of it until I saw the cameras when I got here. Yes, we are being recorded right now. But there’s no reason for anyone to suspect anything. People come here often enough to get their cars.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Don’t you have to sign in or something? Give a name? Give my name?”

“I signed my name only. And if anyone asks or anything comes up, I’ll say I have an informant, or it was an anonymous tip.”

“Just like that, and the questions will go away?”

He clears his throat. “For the most part. I can’t be forced to reveal the name of an informant without a lot of heat from the DA or a court order, and even then, I can still refuse to speak.”

“Wouldn’t that mean being in contempt and going to jail?”

His only response is to press his lips together. I’m not okay with this new twist on our agreement, but I’m already here. What am I supposed to do? Just walk away? No, I’m going to see this through. But that doesn’t mean I have to go passively. I stare at him, and he stares back.

Lynn gets between us and waves at the several dozen cars parked along the back and side. “So, anyway, how do you guys get all these cars in here?”

With the connection broken, we both take a step back.

The detective clears his throat. “It varies. Some cars are seized from impaired drivers, who are drunk or under the influence of drugs. Some from drivers with suspended licenses or other similar issues, and a few are found abandoned.” He looks at me when he says the last part. My vivid imagination has him on his knees, apologizing for the underhanded way he got me here.

Lynn shields her eyes with her hand and carries on as if she wasn’t in the middle of a war of wills. “And how do the owners get their cars back?”

He resumes his walk, and we follow. “Depending on the reason the car was impounded, the owner can pay a fine to get it back. Sometimes the value of the car is less than the fine, and they just leave it. Non-claimed cars get sold at auctions once or twice a year. This lot services a few different towns. In a big city, there would be hundreds, maybe even thousands of seized cars.”

“Wow.” Lynn points at herself. “New Yorker here. I don’t even have a car.”

He looks at me and his face softens. “You’ve lived in New York your whole life?”

A breeze blows my hair across my face. Jake lifts his arm as if intent on brushing my hair away but drops his hand a second later and glances down.

“Yep, my grandma has a brownstone on the Upper West Side. I lived with her my entire life.”

Lynn claps her hands. “Her house is so beautiful. You should visit sometime.” She slides that invitation in like a baseball player stealing home.

If the detective heard her, it doesn’t show—he touches my elbow and directs me to the back of the lot. “You live with your grandmother still?”