Page 43 of The Woman in the Garage

No, all of that would have shown up in his final documents. Right?

None of this made any sense.

I knew that, logically, the right move would be to go immediately to the cops, to give them access to all the units and let them sort it all out.

The thing was… could that impact my inheritance? The house? The repair shop? Would I have no safety net anymore? No job, no income, no place to live? I mean, if he supported the shop or house with drug money, it could get caught up in the legal proceedings, right?

I had to find a way to research that. Anonymously. The last thing I needed was some sort of evidence linking me to illegal activities.

Maybe it was time to get a library card.

Move up my plans to sell the house and business.

Get that money in hand.

Then I could figure out the drug thing.

Decisions sort of made, I turned down my road, promising myself a calm evening where I wasnotgoing to obsess over the whole situation. Though, let’s face it, I was totally going to overthink it to death, work myself into a strong panic, and eventually fall into a fitful sleep.

But as I drove closer to my house, it seemed like there was going to be a change to my plans.

There was a car parked on the street out front.

A very familiar car.

With a very familiar man leaning against it.

Waiting, it seemed, for me.

I just barely resisted the urge to fly into the driveway, rush out of the car, and throw myself into his arms.

Of all the things I needed right then—food, sleep, answers, abreak—what I really wanted most was a hug. Someone to wrap me up tight and tell me that everything was going to be okay.

But Santo, as much as I liked him, was not my support system. He was just a guy. Technically, one I was indebted to.

So I took my time getting out of the car and started down the driveway. “Hey,” I called, head tipped to the side in a silent question.

“Realized something when you didn’t call,” he said, pushing off his car and giving me a boyish grin. “I never gave you my number.”

“You didn’t,” I agreed. “You know, you could have called me at the shop to give it to me.”

“And miss an opportunity to see you in person? Nah.”

God, how did he manage to make my belly somersault so effortlessly? A few tossed-out words and I was all weak-kneed.

“I’m going to invite you in, but that invitation comes with a giant warning for how rough it still is inside,” I warned.

“I don’t even have lamps in my living room,” he said, shrugging.

“No?” I asked, lips curving up, impressed with how easily he wiped away days’ worth of stress. “Well, I have eight. None are working. But they’re… here.”

We walked up my front path, and I was suddenly painfully aware of all the cracked and uneven bricks, the way weeds were clawing their way up between them. Then, as we got to the door, I noticed how the storm door had a ripped screen and a half falling off, rusted handle.

Santo, in his designer suit and wristwatch that likely cost more than I paid for my car—I mean, that wasn’t saying much,but still—was going to look painfully out of place in the shabby little house.

But as I unlocked the door, there was no going back.

“It smells like clean laundry in here,” Santo said as soon as we stepped inside.

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