Page 42 of Fiona and the Fixer

My bat ears snagged on a man speaking. “—the next shipment is tomorrow so?—”

I stilled, stared at a crack in the sidewalk as I focused.

“–the handoff–”

“Sweetheart–” Dax began when I didn’t answer his question, but I shut him up with a hand in his face.

“Shh!” I said, trying to listen back in on the men at the pickle shop.

“–a half a mil–”

He swatted my hand away. “Did you just shush me?”

I concentrated intently as I continued to stare at the sidewalk. I waved him off again. Sighed.

Shipment of what? Handoff of pickles? No way pickles cost a half a million.

“Are you having a heart attack? Stroke? Is it another tumor?” he asked, waving a hand in front of my face.

All was suddenly quiet-ish. A baby was crying somewhere, and a car was heading this way. I couldn’t tell him the truth. He knew about my brain tumor. Knew I was an FBI agent. I wasn’t telling him about my hearing.

So I glared. “No, it’s not any of those things. Jesus.”

“Why did you–”

I cut him off. “I thought I heard something. This is what I’m staying in Coal Springs to find out.”

“This?” he asked, clearly confused. It was like he never hid behind a parked car before.

He lifted up, peeked at the store. “Pickles?”

“Notpickles. The picklepeople.” There was a big difference.

“What does it matter? They’re not bothering anyone.”

“How do you know? They could be smuggling money or guns or drugs.” Ashipmentcould be any of those things.

“So?”

“So? If they’re breaking the law, then they need to be stopped.”

He cocked his head, studied me in the dark. “This really bothers you, doesn’t it? Like the guy at the convenience store.”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Justice isn’t always black and white, you know.”

He was so wrong. Bad people did bad things and hurt good people. They had to be stopped. My father had tried to drill into me how to be strong and ruthless like him. To know your enemies, or to assume everyone was a threat. Weakness was a, well, weakness. I learned all that, plus the fact that I wasn’t like him. That everything he taught me only clarified what I didn’t want to be. He did bad shit to me and to others and I put him away.

It was black and white. I lived it firsthand.

“To me it is,” I replied finally.

“Fine. I’ll help.” He stood, brushed off his jeans, then held out his hand. I took it and he tugged me to my feet.

I was confused. “Help?”

“You need help figuring out this pickle puzzle.” He took my hand in his and started walking down the sidewalk. He wasn’t hiding or skulking like I’d been. We looked like two perfectly normal, not remotely interesting people taking a walk before dawn.

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