Page 21 of Love’s a Script (Hearts Collide #1)

Chapter Twenty-One

The Neilson sisters, intent on choosing the best private investigator to look into their father’s girlfriend, decided to conduct a series of interviews with potential hires on a weekend morning.

They sat on the same side of a worn booth at the back of a diner where the smell of bacon grease and coffee were most potent.

“We can go back and forth asking the questions,” Hattie said, pointing to the set of bullet points on one of the papers she’d printed out for both of them.

Mary nodded and murmured, “All men,” as she scanned the page with the candidates’ profiles.

“Sorry,” Hattie said indignantly, “I didn’t meet your girl power quota. Maybe next time.”

“Hey, I wasn’t criticizing you. It was just an observation,” Mary said. “Thanks for doing all the research.” Her sister seemed snippier than usual, but Mary chalked it up to the pressure of the moment.

The first candidate showed up on time. He was a bald man with deep-set wrinkles in his face and twenty years in the industry. He answered their questions smoothly and seemed confident about their case, projecting a month or so of work.

“And you’re up-to-date with your private investigator license?” Mary asked toward the end of their meeting.

“More or less,” he said.

“How more and how less?” Hattie asked.

“Well, the way I see it,” he said, pausing to take a slug of coffee, “the whole licensing thing is a sham. You fork over money to get a flimsy paper you gotta renew every two years. But with or without it, I can do the job.”

“So to be clear, you don’t have it,” Hattie said.

“No.”

The sisters waited for the man to leave the diner before they pressed their heads together to debrief.

“I don’t like that he lied on his profile,” Mary said.

“Me neither.”

When the second PI arrived with an energy drink, a laptop, and a baby face, Hattie asked, “How old are you?”

“I turn twenty this year.”

“So you’re nineteen right now?”

“Only till August.”

“You’re like the PI version of Doogie Howser,” Hattie said, laughing.

“I don’t know who that is,” the young man replied, and the sisters looked at each other.

He seemed to understand that their apprehension was with his youth, so he straightened in his seat and steepled his hands for the rest of the interview. He didn’t have much experience, only having been an official investigator for a few months, but he was licensed and eager to prove himself.

“I’ve got fifty hours of baton training,” he proudly told them, but the visual of him taking out kneecaps on their behalf made Mary uncomfortable.

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Hattie told him.

Once the young man left with an order of pancakes in a Styrofoam container, Mary turned to her sister for her thoughts. “It’s an immediate no,” Hattie said. “I would wring the neck of anyone who had my teenager running around solving grown folk’s mysteries.”

The third candidate walked in wearing a leather jacket and chewing gum like a lead in a plunky police procedural.

He sat with his arms draped over the back of the booth bassinet and would wink after each answer.

It was off-putting, but Mary tried to keep an open mind.

After all, he was registered and not fresh out of high school.

He also had experience doing the sort of investigation they needed him for.

“I love the hunt,” he said. “And I don’t give up.

I do whatever’s necessary to get the information my clients need. ”

“Within the law, right?” Mary said, trying to cut the intensity of his proclamation with a bit of humor, but there was a long, ripe silence before the PI answered, “Of course.” His intonation and the proceeding wink did a remarkable job of undercutting the assurance.

It set off warning bells within Mary, and she imagined if they went with him, there was a chance they’d have Mounties kicking in their doors in one to eight months. Mary was relieved to learn her sister felt similarly.

“I say we take our chances with the first guy,” Hattie said once they were alone again. “He’s not licensed, but he seems competent.”

“But how do we know that? If he could lie about his licensing, he could be lying about his investigating abilities,” Mary said. “I think we should keep looking.”

Hattie shook her head. “We don’t have time to sift through more postings.”

“I’ll do it this round. Give me a week.”

“We don’t have time,” she repeated, her voice clipped.

“Hattie?”

Her sister sighed. “Dad sent Aurora more money. Apparently she had damages from the blizzard that needed to be fixed urgently.”

An invisible vice took hold around Mary’s lungs, and she couldn’t bring herself to ask for the dollar amount.

Hattie jumped back into advocating for the first candidate, downplaying his shortcomings and calling his hire a necessary risk, but Mary realized they had another option. “I know someone who could help us.”

“Who?” Hattie asked.

“An acquaintance with a contact.”

“That sounds even more sketchy than my suggestion.”

“No, the person I know has good judgment and high standards. I trust him.”

Mary had been sure she’d never talk to Ruben again, but now she needed him.

* * *

When Ruben had suggested sledding to Soledad, a thirty-five-year-old dermatologist and self-professed winter sport fanatic, for their first date, he’d not anticipated how much he’d wipe out.

“Good thing we didn’t go skiing,” he said, shaking the snow from his shoulders.

“You would’ve needed full body armor to survive,” Soledad teased.

They stripped out of their snowsuits when they reached their cars and then drove to a nearby café with kitschy, mismatched furniture.

After placing their orders at the front counter, Soledad excused herself to the washroom while Ruben looked for a place for them to sit.

He’d just claimed a spot near a window when his phone chimed with a text.

Hey, it’s Mary Neilson, it began, and for moments that was as far as Ruben could read. I’m sorry to bother you and understand if you choose to ignore this. But is it possible to get the information for the private investigator you mentioned?

Ruben knew this message was the last thing she’d wanted to send, so her father’s situation must’ve escalated.

Absolutely, he replied. My PI contact is a careful person, so he’ll need to vet you first before he’ll work with you.

How long does the vetting process usually take? she wrote back.

Ruben sensed her urgency, but unfortunately, his PI contact wasn’t one to be put on a deadline. He told Mary as much, but also added, Let me see what I can do.

Soledad arrived at the table shortly after, and he put his phone away.

Their hot chocolates with bobbing marshmallows were delivered, and they continued with their conversation where Ruben nodded, smiled, and asked questions but never fully re-engaged.

The date ended with a vague assertion that a nice time was had, and he entered his car and immediately messaged his PI contact, who went by the initial E, on an encrypted messaging app.

He got home and forced himself to go on about his afternoon and not wait by his phone, but yet he didn’t turn on music or the TV lest he miss the PI’s reply.

He also nearly fell trying to get to his phone when it buzzed, only to find a notification prompting him to write an assessment on the date he’d been on.

It was close to dinnertime when Ruben finally received a call from a blocked number.

“I don’t do rush jobs,” E said to him, his voice rough like those were the first words he’d spoken all day.

“I know,” Ruben said simply.

There was a pause. “You cashing in that favor I owe you?”

“I am.” Of all the tasks Ruben could’ve solicited help with, sussing out a possible catfish was pedestrian work for E, leagues beneath his skill.

“I’ll send you the location and meet time,” E said. “Don’t be late.”

The line went dead, and a calm settled over Ruben, knowing whatever Mary needed to know would be found.