Page 10 of Burning Hearts
Miss Pearl pulled weight because she knew everyone’s secrets. As a retired dispatch officer for Riverfield, she’d heard more midnight confessions than a priest. Late-night police calls, ambulance reports, scandals that never made it to social media.
She knew it all.
Even Tansy Langford didn’t mess with her.
These days, Miss Pearl owned and operated the Cast Iron Café in the rebuilt building Tansy still technically owned, and she was a common sight along Main Street.
Tansy turned and walked away, the slightest bit of huffiness in her step.
Miss Pearl slid her gaze over Ellis and then me.
“Welcome to six,” she said, but what she really meant was: behave.
She was in her early sixties, silver curls always a little unruly, cat-eye readers on a chain she nudged up with one finger. Today she wore a navy shirtdress, a peach cardigan shoved to the forearms, and loafers that said she could walk all day.
She donned a peach enameled pin on her lapel and carried a clipboard like a weapon.
Her posture was always centered, dispatch-calm. Her smile was soft, but her eyebrow was the gavel.
“We’ll behave,” Ellis said, which obviously satisfied Miss Pearl, who turned and headed toward the elevator.
I pushed the door open to my room and let the door click shut behind me as I stood there a second, listening to the quiet settle. I hung my tie on the back of the chair and put my suit coat on top of it. I checked the Brickyard schedule on my clipboard: afternoon prep at the two-bay brick warehouse, canopy delivery at three. Plus, we had pop-up tastings at four. I’d recused myself from any safety signoffs on our own project. Wyatt wore that hat for the department.
But there was plenty to do that didn’t involve a clipboard with a badge on it.
I heard a noise from the next room. Ellis and I were sharing a wall, our rooms side by side. I heard the softthunkof his suitcase hitting carpet. The zip of a garment bag, a muffled drawer slide.
Neighbors. We’d said it as a joke in the hallway. It didn’t feel like a joke now.
The room smelled of hotel soap.
My phone pinged.
Beau had sent a new message in our group chat.
Beau:Brickyard @ Brick & Tile 1500-1700. Rotating slot. Interior closed. Be camera-cute, not sprinkler-famous.
I stared at the message a beat too long, then thumbed out of the thread and opened a DM to Ellis.
If this was dumb, I could blame operations.
Me:Heads-up—we’re at Brick & Tile 3-5. I’m keeping a clear line toward Annex Alley. If you’re planning any pass-through shots, text and I’ll hold the lane. Two minutes is easy; ten becomes math.
A soft bump came through the wall. A drawer meeting a stopper. Or shoulder meeting armoire.
I waited.
Three dots blinked. Vanished.
Came back.
Ellis:Appreciate the courtesy. We’ll route around. I prefer my crew alive and unflattened.
Me:Product doesn’t look good on a backboard.
Ellis:Disagree. Could be on-brand if your brand is drama. Kidding. We’ll be ghosts.
I told my face to knock it off with the smiling. On the other side of the wall, a hanger scraped a rod. Close enough to touch if the wall wasn’t doing its job.
