Page 140 of Snared Rider

“Yeah, I’m seeing that.” He leans back in the chair, tapping his pen against his pad in an infuriating manner that makes my eye twitch. I resist the urge to tear it from his grip and throw it across the room. “Are you in trouble, Miss Goddard?”

I double blink at him. “What?”

“First you get run off the road—”

“I told you that was an accident—”

“—then you’re getting shot at.” He taps his pen on his trouser leg. “You certainly seem to be the common denominator in all of this.”

My assessment of his detective skills goes down. This has squat to do with me. However, since I can’t tell him this without pointing the finger at Dean, I simply shrug my shoulders.

“Like I said, Officer. I’m just here visiting. These events were just badly timed. Believe me, I can think of a hundred ways I would rather spend my only vacation in ten months, but it is what it is. I’m alive and whole, and that’s something to be grateful for.”

He narrows his eyes at me.

“You’re saying it’s a coincidence? Because I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“Miss Goddard,” he says my name with strained patience, “if you are in trouble the only people who can help you are the police. The Lost Saxons may think they’re living in the Wild West where they can dole out whatever their version of justice is, but they’re not. This is Kingsley and if they take matters into their own hands, all they will get is trouble.”

I stare at him. Christ, this guy is unrelenting. He’s also not stupid, and this concerns me. It should concern the Club, too.

“Are you new in town?” I ask, and this time it is him shifting uncomfortably.

“I’m not the subject of this discussion, Miss Goddard.”

“It’s Beth. Miss Goddard makes me feel like a teacher.”

He runs his tongue over his teeth behind his lips and I don’t think he will answer my question. He surprises by saying, “I just transferred in from Manchester.”

“You’re not a Mancunian though,” I say because his accent is local.

“No. I grew up here.” He leans forward, his face near to mine. “And I know exactly how the Lost Saxons work, but that’s not continuing on my watch. You might want to give the lads a heads up about that.”

I open my mouth to respond, but I don’t get a chance because the door is flung open.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Dad’s voice snaps from the doorway. His hands are clenched into fists at his side, and his eyes are blazing.

“I’m just having a friendly chat with Miss Goddard,” Morgan says, tucking his pad and pen into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. I resist the urge to scream ‘Beth’ at him.

Barely.

They both stare at each other, neither willing to back down. And it really does feel like the Wild West.

Pistols at dawn.

“Do you make a habit of interviewing traumatised victims?” Dad demands.

I slide my gaze back to Morgan who has pushed to his feet and is straightening his suit jacket.

“Your daughter and Harlow were nearly killed this morning. I’m just trying to find out who did it.”

Dad grunts. “The day we need the local fuzz’s help we’ll fucking ask. Now, unless you’re arresting her get the fuck out of here.”

Morgan bristles at Dad’s words. “You might want to remember who you’re talking to Jack. I’m not some wet-behind-the ears PC plod.” He moves closer to Dad, getting right into his space.

I hold my breath and the tension mounts between them.

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