Page 17 of Fiona and the Fixer

“Nothing.”

I’d never heard him say that. Not once.

“What do you meannothing?” I spat.

“The convenience store has no security cameras. No other buildings around to mine any security footage they might have.”

Of course, that place didn’t have cameras. It didn’t even have a coffee urn.

“Highway cameras?” I wondered. Every highway, especially up in the mountains where the weather could vary within a mile, had cameras these days.

“Yeah, but you never said what kind of car she had.”

“That hasn’t stopped you before.” He was like the tech guy in James Bond movies. Super smart, super possessive of his gadgets and always found intel.

“All you told me was that she’s blonde, carries a gun, and likes coffee. She sounds like Sarah Connor fromTerminatorwho needs a caffeine fix.”

“Sounds about right,” I grumbled. I was frustrated with the dead end. I’d never been so attracted before. So angry. Frustrated. Annoyed. Aroused.

“There must be a police report on the robbery,” I said finally. “Or there will be soon. She’ll be listed.”

“Yeah, I checked. Not yet. Only the 9-1-1 dispatch. I’ll let you know when that comes through.”

I grunted, then hung up. Rolling onto my back, I stared up at the ceiling. Why was the first woman I ever truly wanted so hard to find?

7

FIONA

I ranfive miles every morning before work. On the weekends, I went further. There was no reason to stop this routine being on fake medical leave–because I wasn’t on vacation–so I was up at five and running the peaceful streets of Coal Springs. That was what I told myself, but I was actually awake because I’d tossed and turned all night thinking of Mr. Suit. That smoldering stare. No, glare. He had averysexy glare. I climbed from bed hot and bothered and the only way I was going to burn off this extra… restlessness was either some time spent with my vibrator or a run.

Or both. Just not at the same time.

I had a feeling Mr. Suit was going to headline my finger vault for a long time.

So, I put on leggings, sports bra, t-shirt, long sleeved shirt, and a hat, leaving my gun behind.

Ten minutes in, I was clearer headed, and I was able to think, even before coffee. Without all the daytime noise bombarding me, I was able to go over everything in my head I currently knew about Hannah Highcliff. Former librarian at the Coal Springs Public Library. Currently owned Happily Ever After Books on Main Street. I checked out the store’s website. It showed a cute shop that had a hell of a lot of pink in it and all the books were romances. There was also a picture of Hannah behind the counter. Her hand rested on a stack of paperbacks and little hearts were added around them to the photo.

She was twenty-six. Five-two, brunette, big smile. She seemed… nice. I couldn’t imagine a librarian or someone selling romance being mean. She didn’t look like a woman who’d had gamma knife surgery, but I didn’t look like one either.

Her parents lived in town. Marcia and Bob. Accountant and taxidermist, oddly enough. She had a sister who lived with them who had no job but aspirations for Olympic trampolining, and a brother who, after doing a five-minute review of the public records of the megachurch he ran in the Springs, was most likely a cult leader.

I really liked to stay on top of things like Perry Highcliff and his probable illegal activities, but cults were hard to shut down, especially since all the followers really liked the Kool-Aid they served. It also–thankfully–didn’tfall under my jurisdiction within the bureau, so this was one time I was going to pretend I never looked into the guy.

The only family I had growing up was my father, and we were definitelynota family. He disliked my very existence. I grew into hating him. I wasn’t sure if the Highcliffs were unusual or not. Was a wannabe Olympic trampoliner and a cult leader in the family normal?

Turning off Dreidel Drive, I huffed and puffed my way up an incline. “Fucking high altitude,” I muttered as I sucked wind and slowed my pace so I didn’t have a heart attack. My quick breaths came out in little white clouds. The town was nestled at eight thousand feet, which meant I was winded as hell only a half mile in. It also meant I needed to lay off the cheesy rice.

Hannah’s last known address was an apartment just to the east of downtown. Three minutes later–yeah, it was a very small town–I slowed in front of the building. The sky was pink and blue, but the sun wouldn’t crest the mountains that surrounded Coal Springs for at least another thirty minutes. All was quiet–even for my ears–besides the sound of my feet slapping the pavement and my hard-core breathing. A car engine revved in the distance. Birds were just starting to chirp for the day. Otherwise, everyone was asleep.

I took in where Hannah used to live. The building was brick and squat, only three floors. Every balcony had cute furniture and planter’s boxes. There wasn’t a parking lot for the place, only street parking. Motor Vehicles listed thatHannah owned the latest model SUV in red and I didn’t see it. I circled the block to make sure.

Next, I ran toward Main Street to check out her store. The cross streets were named after trees. Sycamore, Elm, Oak. As I approached Pine, I was surprised to see one of the stores had their lights on, and it wasn’t a coffee shop. The one I passed wasn’t even open yet. A van was idling out front and two men carried things in and out. As I got closer, I saw they were carrying white five-gallon buckets. The kind sold at the hardware store filled with paint. Taking the opposite sidewalk, I slowed to take in the unexciting action.

The business’s sign was like all the others on the street, wood and hand painted, probably matching a code by the city council for consistency and to maintain the town’s quaintness.

THE PICKLE HOLE

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