Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
“That’s my personal cell,” she says quietly, reminding me how small Redhaven really is, where people still have paper business cards and put their personal numbers on them. “Just tell me where. I’m free tonight, so I’ll think about it.”
“I appreciate you, Miss Grey.”
“Dude. Talia,” she snaps, almost on autopilot. I bite back a smile.
No, I still don’t say it.
I just touch two fingers to my temple, nod, and scoop up my crew’s drinks to make the rest of the walk to work.
Her eyes trail after me like a lost puppy, watching me the whole way.
My house doesn’t fit into Redhaven any more than I do.
It’s been a long damn day.
The Jacobins’ pigs got loose again, and at this point I wonder if they’re doing it on purpose just to keep us tied up while they’re moving their mobile moonshine stills around, always one step ahead of us.
There were more hogs than usual this time. Took us all evening to round them up.
I’ll admit I was distracted and screwed up a few times—and nearly got trampled under several hundred pounds of hooves for my trouble.
I also came about three inches short of letting one of the biggest sows plow right into the A Touch of Grey delivery truck as it trundled past, dragging behind a tow truck from Mort’s garage.
If the Houdini pigs are a ruse, they’re effective as hell.
I’m almost too exhausted to do my usual stakeouts tonight, watching to see if they’re cooking up more than moonshine.
I also have more on my plate than watching the hillfolk and waiting for them to slip up this evening. Looking for a boost, I settle behind the built-in bar in my basement, relaxing while I mix up a cocktail or two.
You can tell the vacation homes built by out-of-towners from the original colonial architecture of a historic town. This house is rustic enough, a rugged sprawling ranch house in raw timber wood. All log cabin on the outside and cosmopolitan black leather, stone, and dark brushed steel on the inside.
I bought it for a song when I first moved here from a wealthy investor who thought Redhaven might be good for some real estate speculation, only to realize it’s only interesting to hikers and people who really love hand-tapped maple syrup, true crime podcasts, and small-town crafts.
I’m sure it’s not the only house with a fancy built-in bar, but it’s probably the only one owned by a former bartender.
Whipping up an espresso martini feels strangely comforting.
Not really a martini at all by proper definition. More like a cocktail that involves a lot of vodka.
A little Stoli Elit, some flavored syrup, concentrated espresso, and coffee liqueur.
Then, because I like my martinis the same way I like my coffee, I add some Irish crème.
It’s soothing, falling into routine pours, mixing, both hands working with years of practice.
Once upon a time, I paid my way through college slinging drinks.
It’s been more than a decade since, but at thirty-five, I can still mix up a pretty mean cocktail.
It honestly doesn’t take long enough.
There’s too much shit on my mind.
Too much to tame in ninety seconds of mix and pour.
The taste, at least, is enough to chase away a few brooding thoughts as I settle into a deep-set chair next to the crackling fireplace, slouching down against the leather.
Not bad.
It gets better when my massive German Shepherd perks up from his nap in front of the heat and trots over to lie down at my feet, thrusting his muzzle under my hand. He’s so old his fur is greying around his face.
“Hey, Rolf,” I murmur against the rim of my martini glass, scratching between his ears. He lets out a satisfied grumble, leaning into my touch and thumping his tail hard against the woven wool rug. “Did the big boy have a good day? Not me, I’m afraid. But I might have a better night.”
His only answer is a low whuff!
I set my drink down on the side table and snag my phone, flicking through the texts until I land on the one I sent Talia as I clocked out of work.
Talia, it’s Micah Ainsley. Shore of Still Lake. 9:30 pm. Can you be there? Are you still feeling well enough to meet? Mallory didn’t report a call, so I’m hoping you made it through the day.
There’s no answer.
How can I blame her?
When a stupid cop you’ve never spoken to in your life rescues you from a public asthma attack, then asks you to meet him over something clearly related to your job with the Arrendells, you don’t jump with joy.
I’d be wary, too.
Only, I’m not the one she should be wary of.
Xavier Arrendell and trust don’t mix.
I never gave him the benefit of the doubt, even before it started getting weird with vicious secrets dripping out.