Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 190(@200wpm)___ 152(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 190(@200wpm)___ 152(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
"Depends." He gives me a shit-eating grin.
"On what?"
"On whether you're going to make my job difficult like every other motherfucker in this town does when they decide to fall in love." He points at me. "Because I do not have time for this bullshit, Emmett. I've already got Easton losing his damn mind over my dispatcher."
My brows furrow. "Easton's losing his shit over a dispatcher?" This is news to me. Easton and I worked together back in Dallas when he was a cop, and I was just starting out on the fire department there. I was honestly surprised when he decided to move here after being shot a few months ago. "Which dispatcher?"
"Molly."
I laugh loudly. "That poor bastard."
Molly is going to eat him alive. She doesn't like cops. I don't think she likes firefighters, either. But she definitely doesn't like cops.
"He'll be fine. I think she likes him. But I don't need shit from you too."
"Who said I was going to give you shit?"
"That look on your face says it."
"What look?" I scowl at him.
"That look," he growls. "That I'm asking for purely personal reasons and haven't figured it out yet look."
"This isn't personal," I insist, knowing damn well I'm lying. I'm pretty sure it was personal the second I heard Nina screaming from inside that damn bathroom. I wasn't even scheduled to work tonight, but… something told me I needed to bring my ass to work. Call it instinct or intuition or fucking fate, I don't know. I just know the feeling wouldn't stop gnawing at me until I showed up at the fire department.
But am I telling this asshole that? No. Do I look like an idiot? Also no. The last person I need in my business is the sheriff.
"She's a witness. I'm an arson investigator," I say. "One plus one equals two. I know math is hard for cops, but keep up, buddy. Damn."
"Do you want to get shot, Emmett?" He quirks a brow at me. "Because I will shoot you."
I smirk at him. "Do you want me to tell your wife that you were late last week because we were playing poker at the fire station?"
"You think she doesn't already know?" He laughs quietly. "Jules knows every goddamn thing, motherfucker. She just lets me think I'm getting away with my bullshit so she gets a night out with the girls out of it without me tagging along."
"You could just let her go out like a normal person."
"I do," he protests.
"Without following her."
"Yeah, fuck that," he grunts. "My wife is gorgeous, and men are assholes. There's no way she's going out without me following her."
"Jesus Christ." I shake my head, not even touching that one. The man is obsessed with his wife. Everyone knows it. "Just tell me what you know about Nina so I can go question her."
"Question does not mean sleep with," he reminds me.
"I may shoot you now," I say cheerfully.
He shakes his head, heaving a clearly beleaguered sigh even though I'm the wronged party here. "She lives in Granite Hills with her brother, who she's been raising for the last few years," he says. "She took a teaching job at the school here a few months ago after their elementary school burned down."
My goddamn heart clenches. "She's raising her brother?"
Dillon jerks his chin in a nod. "Vincent couldn't get his shit together after their mother died. First, it was gambling, then it was drinking and gambling. Nina got tired of picking him up from jail every few days. As soon as she was old enough, she took Nate and got the hell out, told the old man they'd be back when he got his shit together."
"Did he?"
Dillon gives me a look that asks what the fuck I think. "She's been raising the boy alone since she was eighteen. Vincent never even tried to get it together. Said they were better off without him, and that was that."
"Jesus," I mutter.
"The only thing he did right by those two was leave them in peace." He nods at what remains of the house. "They grew up here. Vincent left it to her when he died."
"And now it's gone."
"Yep," Dillon confirms.
I stare at the house for a moment, thinking. She's clearly been through a lot. "Any chance he still owed gambling debts?"
"Shit, probably. The man was at the horse track every chance he got. Why? What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking she's a sweet girl to have been through so much bullshit," I mutter, hesitant to tell him my suspicions just yet. I don't know enough to bring them up, and I'm not going to disrespect the dead by pointing fingers at her father and his gambling problem when the real culprit is probably the same fucker we've been chasing for a week already, not whoever Vincent Gregori may or may not have owed.