Page 57 of Four Steps to the Perfect Fake Date

“It’s temporary.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Shut up, Ellie.”

“Hey, I’m happy for you!” Ellie laughed at the look on Daphne’s face. “I have to get to work. And I can see you and the sheriff are busy here.” At Daphne’s glare, Ellie cackled, then said her goodbyes and left.

Daphne was starting to regret the fib she’d told about being involved with Flint. Three weeks was a long time to pretend to date someone, and her family was far, far too enthusiastic about the prospect.

But—was it a fib?

She frowned at the duffel bag on the chair beside her and decided that yes, it was. Flint wasn’t as awful as she remembered. There were things about him she actually liked, such as the fact that he was a tidy person who knew how to keep his space clean. He could be funny once in a while, when he wasn’t being insufferable. And fine, in an academic sense, Daphne could appreciate that he was an attractive man.

But this thing between them—it wasn’treal. It was just until the vow renewal. Just until she could get her grandmother’s pot back. They had to play nice until then, that was all.

Satisfied, she stood up and carried the duffel bag to her bedroom. Once Daphne was showered and changed, she came out of the bathroom to find a pair of crutches leaning on the wall outside the door. She hooked them under her arms, then made her way out to the living room, where Flint was waiting.

“Thanks for these,” she said.

He glanced up from his phone, eyes doing a quick assessment of the crutches, then Daphne, as if to check that everything was as it should be. Daphne didn’t know whether to be annoyed or appreciative of his care, so she turned to the front door instead.

Ten minutes later, they were at work, and Daphne lost herself in years-old financial records. She pored over any document she could find about the renovations, but nothing made sense. Barela said he hadn’t been paid, but the accounts clearly showed funds being remitted, perthe invoices. All to the same account—the one that apparently didn’t belong to Barela Contracting.

When she cross-checked the account on the original invoices with the digital records, she was able to find the name of the company to which the funds had been transferred. Realist Trade Co. had received the deposits for the renovation. Not Jerry Barela.

By the time Daphne lifted her head, she had a crick in her neck and hours had passed. She needed food. After lunch, she’d work backward; she’d start with the mysterious Realist Trade Co. account and try to find all the deposits that had been sent to it. If anything other than the renovation invoices had been paid to the account, then that would give her another angle to investigate.

The sheriff’s department had a constant drum of activity, and today was no different. Daphne wandered to the kitchen and grabbed the two slices of leftover pizza she’d brought for lunch. As she considered the microwave, she bunched her lips. Soggy crust, or cold pizza?

“I’ll show you a trick,” Shirley said, walking into the kitchen behind Daphne. She pulled the panini press away from the wall. “There’s some foil in that drawer, there. Thanks.”

Daphne watched as the other woman wrapped the slices of pizza in foil and stuck them in the panini press, not closing it enough to squish them.

“They’ll come out good as new,” Shirley said, then shot Daphne a glance. “Heard you’re bunking with Sheriff Flint.”

“He bullied me into it,” Daphne groused.

Shirley barked out a laugh. “Wouldn’t mind being bullied if it meant sharing a bed with a man like that.”

Daphne bit back her protest. If she started denying that anything was going on between them, she’d lose her chance at getting her grandmother’s pot back. “We’re taking things slow,” she said for what felt like the millionth time. “He just wanted to save me from having to hop up my apartment stairs multiple times a day.”

Shirley didn’t look convinced. “Uh-huh.”

Daphne clicked her tongue, and Shirley laughed. Hank ambled in and sniffed the air. “Pizza,” he said. “I’m jealous.”

“Back off, Hank,” Shirley warned. “Daphne needs her energy if she’s going to save this department from ruin.”

Hank threw his hands up and grabbed a container from the fridge. “Wife’s got me on salads,” he said. “If I come home smelling of pizza, she’ll throw me out.”

Shirley chuckled, then asked, “You hear about the break-ins last night?”

“Two in one night,” Hank answered. “Unusual.”

Daphne tilted her head. “You think they’re connected?”

“According to Jerry Barela, it’s someone trying to rob him.” Hank speared a piece of lettuce and shrugged. “We’re looking into it. None of his tools were stolen at Romano’s, but the perp could have been interrupted. Didn’t look like they actually made it inside.”

“Would Barela have a reason to lie?” Daphne asked, frowning.

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