Chapter 2 #2
I parked on Main, taking my bags from the back of my silver Dodge and hauling them into The Eloise Inn. The desk clerk checked me in efficiently, sending me to my room on the fourth floor with two keys and restaurant recommendations for dinner.
I was too anxious to eat much, so rather than stop by Knuckles, the hotel’s restaurant, I dropped my bags in my room, then headed outside.
“Howdy.” A man nodded as I passed him on the sidewalk outside the hotel.
“Evening.” I dipped my chin, already liking Quincy’s friendly atmosphere and the fact that here, I was a nameless, faceless stranger.
I’d hardly left the house in the past two weeks because of the recent media attention. The one time I’d gone to the grocery store, I’d gotten plenty of sideways glances. The cashier had flat-out asked me if I was that cop.
Until that shitstorm died down, I was more than happy to spend my days in Montana.
Ironic, that I’d started my career to stand apart. To be one of the heroes. To wear my gleaming badge with pride. These days, the last thing I wanted was attention. And my badge had a tarnish that no amount of polishing seemed to erase.
Exactly why I’d left it behind.
I crossed Main, heading for the coffee shop. The small green building had a sandwich board out front advertising today’s specials. Mocha latte. Ham, apple and swiss panini. Pumpkin chocolate chip cookies. The words were written in chunky block letters, each adorned with swirly flowers.
The shop’s large, black-paned windows consumed most of the street-facing wall, giving patrons a clear view of the sidewalk and street. In the evening light, they acted like a mirror, reflecting the cars that passed as well as people walking by, me included.
Goddamn, I looked like shit. I dragged a hand through my hair, attempting to tame the dark strands. It needed a cut, and I hadn’t shaved in a few days. The stubble on my jaw was thick. Maybe I’d leave it, grow a beard.
Tiff hated beards.
That didn’t matter anymore. And a beard might distract from the dark circles beneath my eyes. Sleep had been light since, well . . . I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept for more than four or five hours in a row.
I finger combed my hair one more time, but the effort was futile, so I straightened the collar of my plaid jacket before reaching the coffee shop’s door.
Eden Coffee was written on its face in gold lettering. I pulled it open and breathed in the scent of coffee and food. Good food. My stomach growled. Guess I was hungry.
I’d been in the middle of lunch with my laptop when I’d come across the Quincy Police Department’s APB. That meal had been abandoned in the trash, and I hadn’t stopped again once I’d hit the road.
The shop’s walls were the same deep green as the exterior, giving it a warm, inviting feel. Wooden tables and chairs filled the space on either side of the aisle that led to a counter at the back of the café.
The glass display case overflowed with pastries and desserts. The espresso machine’s hiss dulled the conversation from the occupied tables. My boots thudded on the hardwood floor as I made my way to the counter.
The barista wore a pine-green apron. Her jet-black hair was pulled into a short ponytail at the nape of her neck. She had thick, winged eyeliner and her lips were stained purple. Not plum or wine, purple, like a grape jellybean.
She held up a finger as she finished steaming her jug of milk. “Give me one minute.”
“Sure.” I nodded, scanning the large chalkboard menu mounted to the wall behind the counter.
A table in the far corner beside the glass windows would give me an open view of Main and also provide a decent workspace. Better than the cramped desk in my hotel room.
“What can I get you?” the barista asked.
“Ham and swiss panini, please. And a, uh . . .” I peered into the display case. “What’s your favorite thing in there?”
“It’s all good, but I think Lyla is just finishing a batch of her cowboy cookies. Highly recommend.” She pinched her fingers together and did a chef’s kiss.
“Sold.” I dug out my wallet, handing over a twenty just as a woman emerged from the hallway that led deeper into the building.
She carried a tray of cookies, her hands covered in tangerine oven mitts. Her apron was the same pine-green shade as the barista’s. A dusting of flour covered her heart and there was a one-inch streak on her forehead, above her delicate right eyebrow.
Her cheeks were flushed the same pretty shade of pink as her soft pout. A tendril of dark hair had escaped the messy knot on the top of her head and swept across her temple.
My hand lifted, acting on its own, either to tuck that lock of hair behind an ear or wipe away the flour streak.
Her sapphire-blue eyes darted to me as she set the tray on the counter, then pulled off the oven mitts.
Even with the two black eyes she’d tried her best to cover with makeup, she was breathtaking.
She offered me a small smile before dropping her chin into the chunky scarf wrapped around her neck as she began adding cookies to the display case.
That scarf was thick, but the bruises on the long column of her throat seemed determined to make an appearance. They peeked out beneath her dainty jaw.
Black eyes. Bruised throat. Clear signs that someone had wrapped their hands around her neck.
The APB from the local authorities had described Cormac perfectly. Better than any previous report. The bulletin had stated that he was a suspect in an attempted murder but hadn’t listed a means.
Strangulation, maybe? That was fitting. And according to the APB, this crime had occurred outside of Quincy, in the wilderness. Cormac’s playground.
There was a chance this woman had nothing to do with him. That I was simply desperate. But I’d listened to my gut for a long, long time. And it was shouting that she was the one who’d crossed Cormac’s path.
“Here you go.” The barista set a plate on the counter with my sandwich, some chips, a pickle and one of those fresh cookies. “Anything to drink?”
“Water. Please.”
“You got it.” She nodded, then put her hand on the other woman’s shoulder. “I can finish with the cookies, Lyla.”
She nodded as the barista walked to the sink against the back to fill me a glass of water. But she didn’t abandon those cookies. She kept putting them in the display case.
Lyla. Beautiful name. Beautiful woman. Too beautiful to be covered in bruises.
It was just another sin that Cormac would suffer for. I’d make that bastard pay for what he’d done to the girls. To Norah. And to Lyla.
She noticed me staring. That flush in her cheeks brightened. “Can I help you?”
Her voice was raspy. Raw. Barely a whisper.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “I think you can.”