Chapter 20
Noah
Toby whines from his bed in the corner of my office the second Ivy Fairbanks appears in the doorway.
Smart dog.
“Good afternoon, Ivy,” I say, not looking up from the circus case files spread across my desk.
She shuts the door behind her and takes the seat across from me, smoothing her blazer. “Good afternoon.”
I gesture to the box of donuts sitting open on my desk. “Want one? I picked them up this morning.” From Lottie’s bakery, but Ivy knows that, which is precisely why she won’t touch one. Just mentioning Lottie tends to put Ivy in a foul mood that lasts the better part of a week.
Ivy glances at the box, then back at me. “No, thank you.”
Of course not. Ivy wouldn’t accept a donut from Lottie if it came with a cash prize and a written apology for existing.
She folds her hands on the desk. “So. How’s the case coming?”
“Slow,” I say. “Lots of suspects. Lots of motives. Nothing concrete yet.”
“And your mother?”
I look up. “What about her?”
Ivy shifts in her seat. “Noah, she’s a suspect. A legitimate one. I think maybe I should take over her questioning. Keep things clean.”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “She’s my mother. I’ve got this.”
“We have protocols—”
“I know the protocols,” I cut in. “And I’m following them. I’m not compromising the investigation, Ivy. I’m handling it.”
She studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “Fine. But if that changes—”
My phone buzzes on the desk.
I glance at the screen, unknown number, and ignore it.
Ivy continues. “If that changes, I need you to tell me. We can’t afford—”
My phone buzzes again.
I glance down. Another unknown number. A text with an attached photo.
I frown and swipe it open.
It’s a woman. Blonde. Wearing what appears to be lingerie and a great deal of optimism. The message reads:
Hey, handsome. Saw your profile. Let’s meet up. I promise I’ll make it worth your time.
“What the—” I mutter.
“What’s going on?” Ivy asks.
My phone buzzes again. Another text. Another photo. This one’s a brunette in a red dress that’s more suggestion than fabric.
You can arrest me anytime, Officer. I’ve been very, very bad.
“Are you kidding me?” I say aloud.
Ivy’s eyebrows shoot up. “What’s going on?”
My phone buzzes three more times in rapid succession.
I open them one by one.
A redhead in a bikini.
I’ll give you a night you’ll never forget.
A woman in a black negligee.
Detective Fox? More like Detective FOXY. Call me.
A blonde blowing a kiss at the camera.
Let me know when you’re free. I’m VERY flexible.
Toby whines again from his bed, which makes two of us.
“I have no idea what’s happening,” I say, staring at my phone like it just sprouted legs and asked to borrow the car.
Ivy stands and walks around the desk, peering over my shoulder. Her eyes widen.
“Noah Fox,” she says slowly. “Are you getting propositioned by half the internet?”
“Apparently.”
Another text comes through. This one from a woman in yoga pants and a sports bra.
I’ve got handcuffs if you forgot yours.
Ivy gasps. “Oh my goodness.”
“This is insane,” I mutter, scrolling through the messages. There are at least twenty texts from different numbers, all sent in the last ten minutes.
Another one pops up. A woman lying on a bed in what can only be described as strategic positioning.
I promise I’m worth the drive. Where are you located?
“Noah,” Ivy says, her voice tight. “Exactly how many dating apps are you on?”
“None! I would never sign up for one.”
Two more texts arrive. One of them is topless.
I lock my phone and set it face-down on the desk like it’s evidence and I’d rather not log into the system.
Ivy’s mouth hangs open. “My, my. What will Lottie Lemon think about this?”
“Lottie’s not going to think anything, because I didn’t do this,” I say, already pulling up my email on my laptop.
My inbox loads, and my stomach drops.
There are dozens of emails. All from dating apps. All from the last hour.
Welcome to LoveMatch! Your profile is now active.
TinderConnect: Your account has been created.
DateNight: Thanks for signing up! Start swiping now.
SoulMates: Confirm your email to complete registration.
I scroll through them. There are at least eight different apps, all confirming new accounts under my name, all using my email address.
“Found it,” I say.
Ivy leans over my shoulder again. “Someone made dating profiles for you?”
“Someone made me several dating profiles,” I mutter, clicking through the confirmation emails. Each one has a link to the profile they created.
I click on the first one.
My photo stares back at me, pulled straight from the circus event sign-up page. The bio underneath says: Local detective. Great with handcuffs. Even better with feelings. Hit me up.
I click another link. Another profile. Another photo of me. This one says: Single dad of three. I come with snacks, emotional availability, and a very competitive spirit. Let’s make memories.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, the kind they teach you in the academy for hostage negotiations and apparently also for this.
Ivy straightens. “Who would do this?”
I think about the circus. The girls. The spreadsheet comparing me to Everett. The way Ava said they had a treat coming for me.
“I have a theory,” I say slowly.
My phone buzzes again. Another photo. Another proposition.
This one says:
I’ve been watching you. You’re exactly my type. When can we meet?
Ivy reads over my shoulder and gasps. “That one sounds like a stalker.”
“They all sound like stalkers,” I mutter, already drafting a message to report the profiles and get them taken down.
“So what are you going to do?” Ivy asks.
I stand, grabbing my jacket. “I’m going to have a very serious conversation with two thirteen-year-olds about identity theft, online safety, and why catfishing a detective is a spectacularly bad idea.”
Ivy blinks. “Wait. You think—”
I nod. “Yesterday they mentioned they had something special planned for me.”
“This is special?”
“This is diabolical,” I correct. “But also exactly what two bored teenagers would consider a public service.”
Ivy shakes her head. “Good luck with that.”
“Yeah. I’m going to need it.”
I grab my keys and head for the door, my phone still buzzing in my pocket like it’s enjoying this.
“We’ll talk about the case later,” I call over my shoulder.
Ivy’s voice follows me down the hall. “Noah! What am I supposed to tell the sheriff?”
“Tell him I’ve got a couple of thirteen-year-old fish to fry.”
And I have a feeling they’re about to learn a very important lesson about consequences.