Chapter 15 #2
She shot to fully standing, her arms swinging free at her sides, her eyes saucer-sized. “Drugs?”
Was it suspicious that her next guess had jumped straight to drugs?
He braced his palms on the counter behind him, going for a casual stance as he redirected the conversation.
“A witness reported the person leaving your parking lot drove a beige pickup. Do you have any idea who might have a vehicle fitting that description?”
She shook her head, surprise clearly etched in her features. “No. Did they actually come out of my store?”
“Don’t know. All we know is that the vehicle was parked in your lot, and it left from there. Engine could have been off while it sat, or it could have been idling.”
“So it could have been anybody pulling over. Maybe they stopped to check a text or rearrange stuff in their car. They could have picked a totally rando place to park.” Her voice had slid up to a higher pitch.
“They could have pulled into this parking lot to do whatever they were doing.” She pointed toward her kitchen window, which looked out on the Vogue Vault’s back lot, the dirt alleyway, and the park beyond, though right now the view was shrouded by the night’s jet-black blanket.
If she’d had security cameras set up at her place and tape he could review, he might have been able to answer these questions swirling between them.
He and Charlie had spec’ed out her place today—for real this time—and Charlie had put in a rush order for the gear.
He’d been told it would arrive in Durango sometime tomorrow.
Shane had taken the opportunity to look for the map in her office, but he didn’t find it in its hiding place behind the bookshelf.
He gave her a nod. “True, anyone could have.” What had Chesterton said? “I’m not a big believer in coincidences.” Neither was Shane.
Amy stalked from the kitchen without a word and yanked a coat off a peg hanging beside the front door.
He was right on her heels. “Where are you going?”
“I need to get into the store right now and make sure nothing’s been disturbed.” Her movements were jerky, a manifestation of the adrenaline no doubt flooding her bloodstream, yet determination blazed in her eyes.
“I’m coming with you. We’ll take my truck.”
Minutes later, they stood outside the back door to Mountain Coffee. She hesitated, her head tilting this way and that. He pulled out his penlight and shone it on the lock, thinking she couldn’t see to insert the key.
“I don’t think the deadbolt’s engaged,” she said. “I don’t see that silver bar that’s usually in place.”
“Hang on. Don’t touch anything.” He trotted over to his truck, pulled out his last pair of nitrile gloves, and snapped them on.
Then he was back at the door, gently squeezing the knob.
It didn’t move. “It’s locked. Hand me your key.
” He slid in the key she gave him and, using his free hand, slowly turned the knob.
The door drew open easily. No deadbolt. “Are you sure you—”
“Yes,” she snapped. “I’m positive I locked the deadbolt. With everything going on around here lately, I make sure to check it at least three times before I walk away.”
“I believe you, but I had to ask.” He offered her a sympathetic smile, but it did nothing to thaw the icy set of her face.
“Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going in first, and you’re going to tell me which light switches to turn on.
You’re going to stick close behind me, and you’re not going to touch anything. Got it?”
“Got it, Mr. Deputy.”
He crept through the shop, flicking on switches as she gave him instructions. They prowled the space together, her eyes sweeping for anything out of place while he scanned for other oddities.
When their search was complete, her shoulders seemed to sag with relief. “It looks the same as the way I left it.”
“Except the deadbolt.”
She nodded. “Except the—Wait. I forgot to check one other area.” She approached the back of the counter, where she dipped down, carefully pinning her hands to her sides so she didn’t touch anything.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Do you still have that flashlight?” He handed it to her, and she moved the beam over a row of bins arranged beneath.
Bringing herself upright, she handed him the light. “Remember me telling you about my bins getting rearranged?” He nodded. “Shine your flashlight over them. What do you see?”
He did as she instructed. “I see … lidless white bins. Some hold little packets of sugar, some have fake sugar, some hold plastic utensils. They’re all in a neat row, except for maybe this one on the end.” He waved the beam up and down over the bin in question.
“Exactly. It’s not in line with the rest.” When he didn’t respond, she continued. “They hook together, so that one shouldn’t be skewed like that. And another thing. I arrange them in alphabetical order. They’re out of order.”
Shane bent down and studied the bins. The one on the end held individual servings of jams in different flavors. “These should be somewhere over here?” He swung the beam to his left.
“Exactly. And utensils should come after sweeteners, not before.”
He passed her the flashlight. “I’m going to check behind them. Can you keep the light steady for me?”
“Yes.” She held the beam where he asked her to direct it, moving it as he did.
“I don’t see anything back here. If you didn’t keep such a neat workplace, I might be able to tell if something had been stuck back here by an impression in dust, but it’s clean as a whistle.”
“I can’t tell if that’s a criticism or a compliment.”
He straightened, took the penlight from her, and clicked it off. “It’s a compliment with a twist of frustration added in.” One corner of his mouth quirked with a smile, but it didn’t elicit any humor from her. “That means I’d like to solve this for you, but I don’t have enough to go on.”
In addition to the cameras, he needed to change her locks. But was that a good idea? Whoever was fucking with her inventory would know they were on to him or her. Amy’s store as bait, though? That meant Amy was bait. Then again, did she know more than she was letting on?
She wrapped her arms around her middle and lifted those liquid eyes to his.
“Shane, I’m scared. Someone is coming in here and messing with my stuff, and I don’t know why.
And now we have drugs being thrown from a truck that was in my parking lot.
What if the two are connected? What if someone’s moving this stuff through my store? ”
He mustered every ounce of willpower to keep from drawing her against him and comforting her.
“We’re not sure someone is getting in here.
Nothing’s missing, just rearranged. But here’s a question for you: Assuming someone is moving stuff through, how would they do it?
” He had his own ideas, but he wanted to hear hers.
“I don’t know. What if someone packs stuff in my deliveries that someone else picks up late at night?”
“Who does the unpacking when you receive the deliveries?”
Realization seemed to dawn on her. “Oh. That would be me. I need to check what I receive against what I order to be sure everything I paid for is there.”
“Does anyone else do that for you or help you with the unpacking?” Like Cade?
“Not usually, no.” Her arms wound a little tighter. “Are you thinking I’m somehow involved with whatever’s happening?”
Truthfully, he wasn’t sure, and he hated that the doubt existed. His training meant he wasn’t supposed to eliminate any possibilities, so he was going by the book, yet he was struggling to believe Amy was part of whatever sketchy shit was going on.
“No, I’m not,” he hedged. She’s not tied up in whatever this is. It was his gut talking, and his gut didn’t often lead him astray. Then again, his gut wasn’t usually confronted by anything more serious than wildlife run-ins, and it wasn’t normally twisted in a knot of desire either.
“Maybe smuggling stuff inside deliveries isn’t happening, but someone’s still getting in here and messing with my stuff,” she said. “What if they sneak in something that makes customers sick? You know, like switching out the sugar packets with fentanyl powder?”
The question jarred him. “How do you know about fentanyl?”
She flung out an arm. “Everyone who listens to the news knows about it.”
Fair point. “This has been going on long enough that you would have heard by now if anyone got sick.”
“That’s not very reassuring.” A beat passed. “I’m still scared.”
He exhaled. “I get it, and I don’t blame you.”
Shadows enveloped the store beyond the counter, and she peered into them, murmuring, “I think I’ll stay here tonight. I’ll sleep on my office couch.”
Wait. “What? Why?”
“I’m not used to the new apartment, and it kind of creeps me out. It’s so dark there. I feel exposed.”
The Vogue Vault stood between a few empty, dilapidated buildings on a block that hugged the outer edge of Bowen Street.
There was only one working street light there, and it threw a weak circle on a front corner.
The store itself had a motion security light in back meant to illuminate the parking lot, but Shane wasn’t sure it worked.
The idea of Amy staying there—especially when she was frightened—didn’t sit well with him, but neither did her sleeping in her store where someone up to no good was possibly letting themselves in.
“So you want to stay in a place where you’re worried someone could be breaking in and engaging in some kind of criminal activity? That doesn’t make sense, Amy.”
She blinked—rapidly, as if she might cry—and alarm bells clanged in his head. “What do you suggest I do, then?” Her question came out in a squeak so breathless he barely heard it.
Before he could stop himself, he blurted, “Come home with me. No one will bother you there.” His mind raced through his tiny apartment, mentally taking inventory.
Had he made his bed today? Left breakfast dishes in the sink?
Dirty underwear on the floor? Today had been laundry day, but since he hadn’t had a chance to get to it, his hamper had to be overflowing.
Her dark eyebrows flew up her forehead. “To y-your apartment?” she stammered.
Yeah, he couldn’t fault her for her reaction. He was a little floored by his proposal himself. It didn’t escape him that she’d interpret the offer as a come-on, a way to continue the kiss and take it to the next level … and the next … and the next.
“It’s better than sleeping in the sheriff’s office,” he quipped. Once more going for casual, he shrugged. More like jerked his shoulder, popping it.
Those beautiful eyes of hers grew wide once more. “As in the jail?”
“No, you don’t want to sleep in the jail either. Hard beds.” What the actual fuck was wrong with him? “And I’m guessing the Grand Majestic is at capacity with tourists.”
The truth was he could have suggested a spare bed in one of the Hunnicutt homes, and any of them would have welcomed her, no questions asked.
But Amy faced two threats: a mad-as-hell Micky and someone who was sneaking in and out of her store.
Maybe they were one and the same, and maybe not.
No one, not even the brothers, could protect her as well as he could.
“Or,” he drawled, “I could sleep on your couch, if that makes you feel safer.”
“But I don’t have a couch,” she spluttered. “I don’t even have a real bed yet.”
“That’s even more reason to stay at my place. At least I have a bed.” What he didn’t tell her was it was the only bed. And he didn’t own any other furniture that could substitute as one.
He never got the chance because in the next breath, she accepted his offer. “I would really appreciate that.” Her relief was palpable, as though he could reach out and stroke it, and it was visible in the way her posture relaxed and her eyes shone with gratitude.
Shit! He was so screwed.