Page 133 of Stolen for Keeps
She strode over and jabbed a finger at him. “Do your job, sir. She’s not just some client. She’s my best friend.”
“Yes, ma’am. Duly noted.”
That almost got a snort from her, but she just hugged me one more time, tight enough to leave a mark, and then left without a word more.
At the table, Dom hadn’t moved. “Best friend?” he asked, mildly impressed.
“Yeah.”
“She the type to panic and spill everything?”
“No,” I said. “She’s solid.”
He gave a nod. “Good. Let’s get started then.”
Noah leaned in, all business. “What have you got?”
“So here’s the deal,” Dom said, rolling up his sleeves. “Bozeman PD found evidence that you, Maya, leased equipment used to bypass the alarm system. From some underground group. A HERF gun? Sounds familiar?”
I felt Noah stiffen beside me.
Dom added, “There’s also evidence of anomalies during the exact timeframe you were allegedly inside the mansion.”
“Shit,” Noah muttered.
Dom turned his sharp gaze on me. “Is it true?”
I exhaled the tension. “Yeah, that’s true.”
He muttered something under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose before straightening. “Alright, okay. That’s fine. That’s okay.”
Noah shot him a disbelieving look. “You sound like a guy trying to convince himself of that.”
Dom ignored him. “My focus isn’t on this case. It’s on the one from four years ago. That’s the key. I need time to put everything together to prove corruption, to expose the fake assault. That’s where we win.”
I frowned. “But I already did time for that. Why focus on the past when I’m looking at another sentence for this?”
Dom steepled his fingers, considering me. “Because you’re already guilty in their eyes. I don’t just need to fight this case. I need to dismantle the foundation of their case against you. If I can prove you were framed once, I can argue that history is repeating itself. And if I can shake the credibility of Frederic Harlow, we throw doubt over everything. You’re not a repeat offender. You’re a woman caught in the crosshairs of people with power.”
39
MAYA
This morning started the same. Butterberry Oven was a blur of flour and warmth, with jokes rising faster than the brioche.
I tied my apron, shoulder to shoulder with Mrs. Appleby and the other bakers, trading gossip like it was currency. Someone said the mayor’s niece might be pregnant. Someone else was certain Nick’s sister was dating the karate teacher from Kalispell. All of it, small-town harmless. The good kind of noise.
“You’re on register duty, my dear,” Mrs. Appleby told me just before opening.
“Yeah, cool,” I replied, sliding behind the counter. I checked the float, restocked the receipt paper, and wiped down the smudges on the pastry case.
The usual crowd had already trickled in. Old Mr. Brewster in the corner nursing his bitter-as-sin coffee, two high schoolers sharing a giant maple bar, and one mom with twins under five who were determined to try every free cookie sample before noon.
Then, all of a sudden, the door opened, not with the usualjingle and casual gust of wind, but with a push that was too firm.
Detective Frederic Harlow walked in. Behind him was a Bozeman PD officer, tall and barrel-chested, a hand hovering near his belt.
Noah always said it’s not the shout that gets you. It’s the silence before it. The pause when youthinkyou’re okay. I’d lived that once. And I was about to live it again.
