Chapter Four
Mike MacArthur was dead. Twenty-four hours after finding the drive, Drea had been unable to resist pulling at the virtual strings of the information it contained.
When she’d woken, the internet had been working. Finding out the previous evening’s connectivity issues were simply an outage was a huge relief. She’d been dreading calling the provider, begging for a payment extension. Drea closed the web browser and walked over to her bedroom window.
The talented journalist with a long list of environmental articles and awards to his name had been found in an upturned car in a lake about fifty miles north of Athabasca, Canada.
Drea shivered at the thought of it. Drowning in freezing water had to be a terrifying way to die. Reason two hundred and four she was relieved to live in a place where the temperature rarely dropped below fifty.
She’d scoured the web since her mom needed the washroom at five.
In all of the articles she’d found by MacArthur, there was no mention of Walter, or anyone with the initials L.A.
Only Gilliam Gillespie, a lecturer in Environmental Science from the University of Alberta appeared frequently, providing expert sound bites.
While the Edmonton Journal stated that police weren’t looking for anyone in connection with the accident, Drea was convinced they should be. Because if they found out what happened to Mike, they might figure out what happened to the woman.
Drea couldn’t get the woman from the café out of her mind.
She should have been out front, helping, calling the police, not out back getting her phone.
The guilt was eating at her. And if Gilliam and Mike worked together frequently, there was a slim chance Gilliam might know who the woman was.
She found a picture of Gillespie as well as his email on the University of Alberta’s website.
If Santa lost a fight with a pair of clippers, he’d look like Gilliam.
He’d been a lecturer at the university for over twenty years.
She typed an email, included the photograph of the woman from the video surveillance footage, and asked if he had any idea who she was.
The loud alarm notification pinged on her phone.
Breakfast with Cujo.
Shit. Drea hit send before she had second thoughts, and dashed for the shower.
She arrived at the S & S diner forty minutes later, five minutes early to meet Cujo.
The communal bar in the shape of a giant horseshoe was empty except for an elderly couple nursing their coffee and reading the newspaper.
They were most likely local—it was still too early for the late-night reveling tourists.
Drea grabbed two spots on the left side so she could face the window.
She ordered a coffee and studied the menu, even though she’d already decided she couldn’t afford the BLT she really wanted.
The ham sandwich and apple she’d brought from home would be enough later.
The door opened. “Morning, Shortcake.”
He was dressed in black jeans that hugged his butt and a fitted charcoal gray V-neck.
The aviators he wore cast her reflection back at her.
Her heart couldn’t have beat any faster if she’d injected it with the really strong Argentinian coffee José swore by.
Black leather bracelets adorned his uninked arm.
The stomach flutter she just experienced was definitely hunger. Right?
“You okay there, Shortcake? Looking a little flushed.”
Drea kicked the stool next to her out. “I’m fine. I just rushed here to be on time.”
Cujo pulled out his phone and laughed, holding the screen toward her. “It’s three minutes past eight. Three minutes. Cut me some slack.”
“What can I get you, hon?” A friendly server in a matronly white blouse pushed her glasses back up her nose.
“Did you order?” he asked.
“I’m good. Just the coffee for me.”
“I’ll get a coffee, a large OJ, the omelet special with extra toast”—he paused and looked at Drea—“and a BLT.”
“Sure thing, guys.” The waitress went to place the order for them.
“Wow, hungry much?” Drea salivated at the thought of all that food, but maybe she could steal a piece of toast.
“Just finished at the gym.” He grabbed the orange juice as soon as it was placed in front of him, downing it in huge gulps. “You should come with me sometime. Burn off some of that … erm … energy.”
“You know, about seventeen people a year die from injuries caused by a four-pronged fork.” Drea picked up the napkin-wrapped implement, slowly removing it from its trappings to gently press the tines into the soft flesh of her thumb.
“Really?”
She looked up at him—damn those blue eyes. “No, I have no idea. But I could definitely make you the first victim.” Drea bit back a grin as Cujo laughed.
They made small talk for a while longer until Drea reached for her binder. “We have a bunch of stuff to go through.”
They were interrupted by the food being placed in front of them. Cujo leaned across her, his fresh clean scent competing with the salty smell of the bacon in the BLT. It was a tough call as to which was more appealing.
He closed her folder and pushed it off to one side, replacing it with the BLT.
Drea pushed the sandwich toward Cujo. He pushed it back.
“What?” Cujo asked, facing her. “It’s a BLT, not a marriage proposal,” he whispered into her ear. “Just eat it. You can stab me with the fork later.”
Drea picked up the sandwich and took a bite.
The soft sourdough bread had been toasted, loaded with mayo just how she liked it.
The salty bite of bacon and the sweet tang of perfectly ripe tomatoes exploded on her tongue.
She closed her eyes and sighed. If an orgasm ever took physical form, it would be this very BLT.
“Good?” Cujo asked, watching her curiously.
Drea nodded furiously. “Absolute perfection,” she said, covering her full mouth with her napkin. “Thank you.”
Chewing quietly, she decided to tell Cujo about the flash drive. “I think I found something connected to Snake and the woman.”
“Yeah, what is it?”
“You know that night I cleaned the laundry basket and I was complaining about my coworkers not emptying their pockets?”
Cujo nodded as he bit into his toast.
“Do you remember I found a flash drive?”
“Yeah. You claimed finders-keepers rights, right?”
“I figured it was one of the students who work at the café part-time but turns out it had all this weird environmental stuff on it. Reports and stuff about fracking.”
Cujo took a sip of coffee and put his mug down. “What makes you certain it’s hers?”
“I don’t know. It’s a gut feeling.”
“Did you give it to Carter yet? Maybe he can figure out if it is connected.”
Drea shook her head. “I got a bit paralyzed about it. You saw Snake. The guy meant business. I think it was what he was looking for.”
“You need to get it to Carter. If it is hers, I doubt Snake’s going to come back and ask you nicely for it, Drea.”
She knew that, and it was part of what scared her.
Cujo got the check and left some bills with the receipt. “Do you want to deal with it now? I can drive you home and back.”
“No, it’s fine. You have work, and we still need to get through this list.”
“We can go through the list in the truck on the way to the party rental store,” Cujo said, throwing down his napkin.
“Sounds good,” Drea said, glancing down at the headlines of a newspaper someone had left behind. Every day she checked them, waiting for a headline confirming that the woman had been found, but instead it was about a boatyard fire just outside of Pinecrest.
“What are the chances we get through today without a fight?” Cujo asked leaving a tip on the platter.
“We don’t fight,” she responded quickly.
“Like hell we don’t,” he laughed, letting her walk in front of him.
“We wouldn’t fight if you just agreed me with me,” she threw back over her shoulder.
“Drea, we might be the only two people who could fight over whether or not we fight.”
She loved the way he teased and the way his hand grazed her lower back as he held the door for her, searing the skin between the top of her jeans and the bottom of her blouse.
She felt the callouses on his fingers, the heat from his palm, the brush of his arm along her back.
It was impossible to ignore the rush of tingles in places she really didn’t want tingling at his touch.
If only she could fight the way he made her feel.
* * *
“Why is it only sandwiches for dinner? We usually have tacos on Wednesday.”
Drea rolled her eyes. “Because I start that new job tonight Mom, I told you. I don’t have time to get home, make dinner, and get back to the hotel. José let me go a couple of hours early to attend training before I start my shift.”
“When will they pay you? This Medicaid pump is too noisy. It keeps me awake.”
And the fact Medicaid provides it for free helps me sleep at night. “I don’t know, I’ll ask tonight. Look, I gotta go. I’m here.”
Drea popped the phone into her purse and walked round the back of the hotel to the employee entrance.
She was met by someone from human resources who took her into a small meeting room to wait until the new-hire session started in thirty minutes.
There was a sad-looking tray of cookies next to a tall black pot of coffee.
Bitter without a hint of sweetness my ass, she thought as she poured a healthy dollop of cream in.
Her phone rang again and again. Drea looked at the screen, expecting it to be her mom, but was surprised to find a private number.
“Is this Andrea?” a male voice asked.
“Who is this?” Please don’t let it be the cable company.
“This is Gilliam. Professor Gilliam Gillespie from the University of Alberta. I was very intrigued by your email, Andrea. Has the woman been found or identified?”
“Thank you for returning my call. No, she hasn’t. Do you know who she is?”