10. Life… Shiftifted
LIFE… SHIFTED
PATRICK
Patrick’s mind was whirring as he drove back toward town.
He'd been in that house for less than an hour. Not long, in the grand scheme of things. On the surface, he’d done nothing particularly notable. He'd returned a notebook, drunk a cup of coffee, and had a perfectly pleasant conversation with a man who knew his grandfather.
So why did he feel as if his life had… shifted, for lack of a better word?
Morgan Sullivan, that was why.
He tried to reconcile the woman in oversized flannel with the coffee spiller in the café, the French-fry munching book reader in the diner, and the medicolegal death investigator who’d left her notes at a crime scene.
And the way she'd crossed her arms and lifted her chin and stood her ground?
He'd liked that.
He'd also liked the beat before she took the notebook—that single unguarded moment where she'd looked at it and then at him, like she was equally irritated and impressed that he’d connected the dots so quickly.
More importantly, she’d seemed equally—if reluctantly—intrigued with him as well. At least, that was what he was telling himself.
He'd given her the pub as a way out that didn't require commitment, which was the right move. His gut told him she wasn't a woman to be pushed. She needed options and the chance to make her own decisions.
She’d show. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually.
And he’d be waiting for her when she did.
Declan was at the kitchen table looking like he’d just rolled out of bed when Patrick came in. He probably had, given that he'd worked a closing shift at Angels the night before. He looked up from his phone when the door opened.
“You hear about the body at the campground?” Declan asked by way of greeting.
“Yep. Hot topic at the pub this week.”
“Angels, too. Lot of questions and no answers,” Declan said. “The police aren’t saying much.”
“No, they’re not,” Patrick agreed.
“Because they don’t know what happened, or because they do and they don’t want it to get out?”
“That’s the question—or at least one of them.”
They pondered that for a moment before Declan said, “Is this something we need to worry about? Kyle and Lina’s cabin is on the other side of that lake, you know.”
“I know, and I don’t think so. This doesn’t feel random.”
“Agreed. So… what are we going to do about this?”
That “we” was the reason Patrick had gone to Declan first with the idea of a PI/security firm. His cousin was smart, solid, and as committed to keeping their small-town valley community safe and protected as he was.
“I've been doing some digging.”
The corner of Declan’s mouth moved—not quite a smile, but close. “Yeah, figured as much. Riley too?”
“Yeah.”
“Find anything useful?”
“Nothing solid yet. I did go out to the campground to take a look around.”
“And?”
Patrick set his glass in the sink, thinking about Morgan’s notes and his own observations. “If there was any useful evidence, it’s gone now.”
“No surprise there,” Declan muttered. “I’ll reach out to some friends, see if they’ve heard anything.”
Declan had a lot of useful friends—on both sides of the law.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Patrick entered the pub's private back entrance thirty minutes before his shift with the intention of catching Riley up to speed.
His aunt Taryn looked over from the pot she was stirring on the stove and grinned.
He liked all of his aunts, but Taryn was his favorite.
She was badass and had great taste in music.
Today she was wearing a vintage Warrant t-shirt, and 80s metal was playing in the background, as usual.
“Hey, Patrick. Did you eat dinner yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Then you’re in luck. Help yourself and take your time. I’ve got the bar covered.”
“Thanks, Aunt Tar.”
Patrick fixed himself a plate and joined Riley and his younger cousin Rory at the big family table. He’d eaten more meals at this table than he had at his own.
Riley looked up when he sat down, her eyes asking the question she didn’t voice aloud.
Find anything?
Oh, yeah, Patrick answered silently.
She shot a glance at her younger brother. Patrick understood.
Later.
Later, he agreed.
“Hey, Rory,” Patrick said.
“Patrick. How’s the house coming?”
“Work in progress.”
“I’ve got time this weekend if you need an extra pair of hands.”
“Can always use an extra pair of hands.”
Rory nodded and went back to scrolling.
They ate in the comfortable silence of siblings who had done this a thousand times or more.
It was much later when Patrick had a chance to fill Riley in. He’d gone to the storeroom during a lull and she’d been right behind him.
“So.”
“So,” he said.
“The campground.” She aligned a row of glasses with unnecessary precision. “Tell me you went out there.”
“I went out there.”
“And?”
He told her about the notebook. The seal. M. Sullivan. The research, the directory result, the drive out to the Old Miller Road address they'd already found together at the kitchen table two nights before.
“You went to Frank Sullivan's house,” she said, when he'd finished.
“I returned a lost notebook.”
“To Frank Sullivan's house.” She looked at him. “Was he there?”
“He was. We had coffee.” He paused. “His granddaughter was there too. She's the one who owns the notebook.”
Riley set down the bar cloth. “M. Sullivan is Frank’s granddaughter? And she’s an MDI?”
Patrick nodded.
“What was she doing at the crime scene?”
“She said she was taking a walk.”
“Of course she was,” Riley said, sarcasm lacing her tone. “Just like you. What was she really doing there?”
“Looking for answers.”
“Why? What’s her interest?”
“I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “But I’m guessing it has something to do with a body showing up on her family’s land, and the fact that she’s a trained investigator.”
“Which means she probably senses something’s not right, just like us,” Riley mused. “This could be useful. What's she like?”
Patrick considered this, choosing his words carefully. “Controlled. Precise. Not particularly interested in making things easy.”
“For you specifically or in general?”
“Both.”
“Did you ask her about the case?”
“Didn’t really have the chance. She confirmed she was there, more or less, but not in an official capacity.” He paused. “I suggested we might compare notes at some point.”
“And?”
“She said she'd think about it.”
Riley blinked. “You asked Frank Sullivan's granddaughter—a professional death investigator—to collaborate with you on an unofficial investigation into a suspicious death on her family's property.”
“I left it open.”
“And she said she'd think about it.”
“Yes.”
Riley pushed her hair back from her face and paced a few steps in either direction, something she did when her brain was running ahead of her mouth. He waited patiently.
“How did you leave it?” she said finally.
“I told her that if she was interested, she could find me at the pub.”
Patrick waited a few more beats, knowing Riley was connecting dots he might have hinted at but not explicitly drawn.
“Had you seen her before you went to Frank Sullivan’s house?”
“Once or twice around town,” he admitted.
Riley narrowed her eyes, looking at him intently.
“She’s the woman from the café, isn’t she?” she said, her lips curling into a wry, knowing smile. “The one who’s got you checking the door every five minutes?”
Sometimes his cousin was a little too good at making connections.
Patrick hefted the keg and stepped toward the door. “No comment.”