Page 91 of Knotted Laces

Instead, we played old-fashioned board games and threw down over orcs.

And tonight we’re doing it all over again.

Smiling, I hurry through my shower, throw on a pair of jeans and a halfway decent shirt then make sure to give Cookie plenty of cuddles and, well,cookies. Then I’m out the door, into my car. I buckle in and am halfway out of the garage when the niggle hits?—

No, when theMack Truckof a realization hits, slamming into my head with all the finesse of that big truck and leaving me dazed and spinning on the side of the road.

Road.

Shit.

I slam on the brakes, stopping my reverse, and wrench the gear shift into drive. I gun the gas and pull back into the garage with a squeal of tires that’s likely loud enough to concern the neighbors.

I’ll apologize later, I think, as I slam on the brakes again, stopping mere inches from colliding with the inside wall and slamming the transmission into park.

“Fuck,” I whisper as I snag my purse and all but leap out of my car, sprinting for the house. “How did I miss it?”

I tear into the house so quickly that Cookie sprints away from me, knocking over shoes and who the fuck knows what else as he skitters through the house.

“Sorry,” I call as I catch the door before it can slam into the wall and close it behind me. But that’s all I have time to do as I hurry into the kitchen, pick up my laptop, and open up the Lyon case file.

As I scroll through the files and the notes I made, trying to remember where the fuck I’d seen it.

“Come on,” I whisper as I read rapidly. “Come on.”

My phone buzzes, but I only distantly hear it, and I can’t pull my focus from the files anyway.

I need to find it.

Needto put the rest of the pieces together.

I need to…

Find the confirmation of why the asshole of a head coach for the Eagles looked so familiar the other day at the rink.

And as I search for it, I don’t hear the texts, don’t hear the calls.

I’m just in the zone.

Searching.

Finding.

And by the time the door to the mud room crashes open, who knows how much later, I’ve printed near-on fifty pages, scribbled my way through almost an entire legal pad, and covered my island with papers.

But…I’ve figured out the puzzle, sorted out the fucked-up mess of the Eagles, and so I’m smiling as Cam hurries out of the hall and into the kitchen.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Cam

Her hair isa crazy mess of curls, and her eyes are tired, but she’s smiling widely as I rush into the kitchen.

“Cam,” she says happily, turning in her chair.

“What the fuck, cupcake?” I snap.

She blinks, her smile fading and though a thread of guilt slides through me, I can’t let it go that easily.

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