Page 8 of Colton's Secret Weapon
She also hadn’t delivered a key to the place after she’d had the locks changed shortly after moving in. She trusted her landlords implicitly. Not so much the taxidermist who’d had the space before her.
She’d spent a month ridding her studio of bad energy before she’d moved a single thing in. With salt in a bowl at the door, scrubbing every corner and then applying pinches of salt in each one of them, burning incense and essential oils, leaving windows open when the air outside was fresh, leaving music playing twenty-four seven at frequencies that were proven to relieve tension, she’d finished by changing the locks.
Four steps was what it took to get around the wall that faced the studio’s front door and blocked the peace of the classes from those entering. There was also a wall filled with cubbies in which clients stored their personal belongings—suffused with energy from their everyday lives—before entering the studio itself.
Four steps and Dove froze. Gasping for air. Eyes flooding with tears, she found the strength to move her head, allowing her a glimpse from one end of the studio to the other.
The entire space had been trashed. Literally. The expensive sprung wood floors she’d put in were covered in what looked to be an entire garbage truck’s worth of everyday items human beings threw away. Piles of it. A crushed empty toilet paper roll. Empty cans. Broken and stained food containers. A ripped egg carton.
And the smell…spoiled food? Used hygiene items?
Covering her nose and mouth, she stood there, tears streaming down her cheeks. Unable to comprehend what she was seeing.
Feelings always came first. They spoke the loudest within her.
And in that moment, all Dove knew was despair.
Mitchell’s plan was half-formed and weak at best. He’d found problems with the leasing agreement Whaler had signed years before, giving him lifetime access to the dock space he used. The fishing captain had been charged illegal fees over a period of years. Enough so that the money would be a boon.
St. James Boats needed employee contracts that better delineated a benefit package that would serve the two men who worked for him but also save the company money.
Mitchell could oversee contract negotiations under which Whaler could use the equity inWicked Winningsto borrow enough money to buy two new smaller boats to be rented out for private fishing charters—currently St. James Boats largest income stream. But without Whaler sober and at the helm of his operation, Mitchell didn’t see much hope of any of it making a big enough difference to save the business.
That particular message wasn’t first on his list as he climbed the stairs inside Repo to speak with Dove before her afternoon classes started. Assuming she was adhering to the schedule he’d just accessed on the Namaste website.
He’d also spent time that morning doing some research on Brad Fletcher. And did not like what he’d found.
Mitchell was equally displeased as he saw the studio door standing open—allowing anyone to enter as they pleased. He’d just warned Dove to be extra careful. Keeping her studio door closed and locked while she was in there alone was part of that. She could unlock it when it was time for class.
Muscles tensed beneath his shirt, he pushed on the door with one shoulder. And was hit simultaneously with an eerie silence… and dreadful smell.
In two strides he was around the wall blocking the entry from the studio and ran straight into Dove’s back. Catching hershoulders between his hands, he held her upright long enough for her to give a backward jab of her elbow straight into his rib cage.
And barely had the wherewithal to protect his area as she spun with a knee already poised to hit. Hard.
“Oh!” Her exclamation was part of a hiccup as she looked up, her gaze—wide-eyed and blank—connecting with his.
Aware of the destruction in his peripheral vision, Mitchell tuned out any specifics as he saw the tears dripping down Dove’s face.
Had he been too late? Fletcher had done something to her?
Filled with an anger that was foreign to him, he softened his hold on her arms, though not letting go as he feared she might need his support. “Are you okay?” he asked.
His gaze intent, he brushed by his own mentalOf course she isn’tto get the information he needed first. Had she been physically compromised in any way?
When she just stared up at him, he rephrased the question. “Are you hurt?”
Her eyes cleared some as she frowned. Opened her mouth slowly. And said, “Not physically.”
Relief flooded through Mitchell. More than any he’d ever experienced in court when a questionable verdict came back in his favor.
With the confirmation that he wasn’t rushing her to emergency care, he took his first good glance over her shoulder and tensed all over again.
“Who did this?”
Dove shrugged. But it was the desolate look in those big green eyes that caught him. “I just got here and found it like this,” she said. “I think the lock on the door was broken.” Her voice was threadbare. Sounding nothing like the woman who’d spent the past twenty-four hours challenging him to step up.
Strands of that long auburn hair, wet with tears, were sticking to the sides of her face. He pushed them back over her shoulders. Like somehow that was the first task toward making something better.
