Chapter Eleven
Nick found Sassy in the office upstairs above the gallery, her eyes glued to the open screen of her laptop on the desk.
She looked harried, her hair a haphazard bun on top of her head.
He hated how pale she looked. He recognized weariness in the slump of her shoulders and nerves in the way she pulled at her lower lip, just as she’d done when they were teens facing finals at the end of the school year.
He knocked on the doorjamb to alert her to his presence. When her head snatched in his direction, he said, “I swept the lower floor.”
“Did you see anything out of place?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Everything, down to the storeroom, was neat as a pin.”
“Soledad’s a wonder,” she murmured with a faint smile.
He stepped into the room. “What are you looking at?”
She hesitated for a moment before turning the screen to face him.
The security feed from the back door. She’d frozen it on an image. He looked at the time stamp. “This is from half an hour ago.”
“This is what woke me up,” she admitted. She hit the space bar on the keyboard, and the image started moving in real time. “I’ve frozen it several times. Whatever it is moves so fast, I can’t get a screen grab.”
“Do you mind if I try?” he asked.
She hit the back button until the feed milled backward to a minute before the disturbance took place.
Nick leaned over her until the stray hairs of her topknot brushed against his cheek and tapped the space bar with his thumb.
They waited. One minute and fourteen seconds crept by before the white figure darted across the feed again, making Sassy jump.
Nick quickly hit the space bar, trying to freeze the frame with the shape somewhere in the middle. She was right. It was too fast.
He laid his hand on her shoulder to steady her nerves and his own. He didn’t like this. The truck. The house. The gallery. What next?
“The back door wasn’t breached,” she said as she picked at one cuticle with a nail.
“It could have been and whoever this was covered his tracks well.”
“We don’t know it’s a him,” she pointed out. “We don’t even know if it’s a person. It looks like a big white blob to me.” She snorted, trying to make light of the situation. “Should we call Area 51—tell them they have an escapee?”
She liked to lighten the mood in tense situations. That was her MO. He loved her for it.
Slowly, he let his hand fall from her shoulder. His nerves were on edge. Hers were buzzing just beneath the surface. He had to think clearly or he would let his emotions make his decisions for him.
She released a sigh, all traces of mirth lost to the gravity of the situation. “I don’t want the police here.”
“Why not?”
“The fundraiser is in two weeks,” she stated. “I’ve nearly finished curating all the pieces we need for the auction. It’s not just Zephyr’s reputation riding on this. It’s the Colton Foundation. Not to mention the artists themselves. The gallery can’t afford any bad press or suspicion.”
Conflicted, he felt the knots of his jaw tense, watching her profile as she ran through the footage again. “Do you trust me?” he asked quietly.
Her eyes swung to his, wide and fathomless. He watched her pupils dilate as her gaze raced across his face. “Of course I do.”
He tilted his chin at the screen. “Do you trust me to handle this?”
She narrowed her eyes. “How?”
“I need your answer.”
She looked back at the computer, frowning at the unidentifiable shape. Shaking her head, she said, “I don’t want you to do anything that’s going to get you hurt.”
“I won’t.”
Glancing back up at him, she searched his eyes until he felt his toes curl inside his shoes. “Promise?” she whispered.
He resisted the urge to run his fingertips across her cheek just to feel the softness of her. “Promise.”
She gave a nod. “Okay,” she said with some reluctance.
Relieved, he let the rough framework of a plan solidify into place. He had work to do and two weeks to do it.
“Full disclosure?” she asked.
He drew his attention back to her unerringly. “Of course.”
She bobbed her head in a decisive motion before pulling the middle drawer of her desk open. From its depths, she took something out, wrapping her hand around it tightly. “The first time the alarm pinged, I found this at the back door.”
When she held it out, he opened his palm so she could drop the metal object into it. He frowned at the silver rod. “What is it?”
“I believe it’s a bar rod for a style of bolo tie. The kind cowboys sometimes wear. If you turn it over, you can see a longhorn skull brand.”
He flipped it over and angled the rod toward the light. “What does it mean?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Maybe it’s a maker’s mark. A signature. But I don’t recognize it. I’ve been asking around discreetly among local jewelers, but no one’s been able to identify it. Even if someone did, I doubt we could trace it back to its owner based solely on that.”
He thought about it. “You mind if I keep this?”
“What good will it do?”
“You never know.”
She eyed the piece for a moment before she looked away. “Take it.”
“Thanks.” He closed his fingers around the rod and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. “Is it okay if I show someone else this footage?”
Her head low, she picked at her cuticle again. “You will let me know if it leads to anything?”
Unable to stop himself, he dropped to one knee next to her chair until she lifted her chin and looked at him again. He took the hand of the cuticle she couldn’t seem to stop maligning and gave it a small squeeze. “What do you take me for, Haseya?”
She rolled her eyes at the sound of her real name. “Why does everyone have to keep calling me that?”
Because it’s extraordinary, like you. She’d shown him every part of who she was. She’d trusted him with each. Haseya. Sassy. All the versions of her she showed the world and all the ones she tucked away for self-preservation purposes. “Tell you what,” he said, “I’ll never call you Haseya again.”
Her lips twitched, and he saw the miracle of her sunny disposition peering through the gnarl of fear and worry the last few days had wrought. “If…” she prompted, sensing that he wasn’t finished.
He turned his lips up into a smile. “If you give me back my truck keys.”
The laugh burst out of her, surprising them both. Groaning, she stuffed one hand into the pocket of her overalls and pulled out the fob. Before he could take it, she held out her pinkie finger. “Pinkie swear you’ll use it wisely,” she warned, brows raised.
Even without makeup, she was stunning. Did she know how stunning she was?
His heart leapfrogged over the next few beats and he fought to keep the smile in place.
He would protect her, defend her…and he would figure out what was lurking outside her door, come hell, high water or heartbreak.
Extending his pinkie, he linked it with hers. “I pinkie swear.”
* * *
The next morning, Nick caved and let Sassy take his truck keys once more to drive to the auto shop after she dropped him and Riot off at River House.
As she parked on the curb in front of the elegant facade of the long-term care facility, she rolled down her window. “Aw. Look, Riot. Your fan club awaits.”
Nick stared in surprise at the welcome party on the benches and rocking chairs lining the porch. Among them was his mother, waving as soon as she saw them, and her friend, the surly-faced Mr. Kincaid, Sassy’s favorite octogenarian. “Watch out for that one,” she cautioned.
“Why?” Nick asked, swinging the passenger door open to step out. Riot tapped happy paws against the floor of the backseat in anticipation of his owner unleashing him on the River House residents.
“He’s my boyfriend.” Sassy winked when Nick’s jaw dropped. “Don’t make him jealous. He’s feisty.”
“Should I tell him we’re not together?”
Her teasing smile fled. Running her tongue over her teeth behind her lips, she frowned at herself. That was their truth. Why did it bother her? “Nah,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Let him think I’m playing the field. Keep him guessing.”
Nick chuckled as he dropped to the ground, closed his door and opened Riot’s. He gripped his leash. “Out you go,” he said, grunting as he caught Riot’s middle before he could superman to the ground.
She caught his grimace as the save tweaked his wrist. “Meet you for lunch?”
“At the brewery, right?”
“I’m tired of burgers,” she contemplated. “How about Jessamine’s?”
“Sounds good,” he decided, wrapping Riot’s leash around his good hand. “Good luck at the auto shop.”
“Bye, boys,” she called. “Make good choices!”
Nick shut the door, but not before she caught his rueful grin. Sassy tooted the horn, waving at those on the porch, and eased the truck away from the curb.
She could’ve walked to Bucket of Bolts Auto Tune, the shop owned by Sal Spalding who’d sold her the Bronco back in high school. But she was wary. It would be a while before sidewalks were her friend again, even if the near hit-and-run had been an isolated incident.
After what she’d seen on the security feed last night, she didn’t know what to think anymore. Worse, her imagination was getting the better of her. She hadn’t been able to fall asleep once she and Nick had returned to the house last night.
Perhaps that was a good thing. She couldn’t afford any more wet dreams with the subject of her current fantasies and his lovable pooch couch surfing to ensure she was safe inside her own house.
It took seconds for her to pull into Sal’s parking lot. She could see the Bronco in one of the open bays of the shop. The sight of it raised off the ground on the hydraulic lift made her anticipation falter.
Sal’s message this morning, she’d assumed, had been good. Why then was her baby still jacked up on stilts?
She blew through the door of Sal’s. The shop was empty, an unfortunate result of competing against the chain auto shops popping up on every corner.
The grizzly-bearded man with tattoos winding around his muscled arms came through the door to the garage, wiping his hands on a shop rag. He took one look at her and sighed. “Sassy.”
“Sal,” she greeted, then launched right into it. “I’m not taking my girl home today, am I?”
Pity webbed across his rough-hewn features. His mouth pulled low as he gestured to the waiting area. “You’d better sit down.”