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A few more with sandwiches and other snacks. Tables full of honey, strawberry preserves, and apple butter. A revolving rack of cheap sunglasses. Nicer arrangements of quilts, baskets, and other, more expensive handmade items.

A large counter filled with silver jewelry formed a solid square in the middle of the store. An old man stood behind it, one hand resting on a large shotgun with a scarred wooden stock.

What little there was of his wispy white hair stuck up over his forehead as if it had been shocked upright by my appearance. His eyes were dark and shiny, as though two chocolate caramels had been stuffed in his face. He was about my size, stooped with age from his original, taller height. His skin was a dark, burnished brown, marking him as having some Native American heritage, most likely Cherokee in this neck of the woods. Deep lines grooved his face around his pinched mouth, as if he frowned a lot.

But perhaps most unsettling was the fact he wore a blue work shirt that could have come straight out of Fletcher Lane’s closet. His dark eyes held the same fierce determination that Fletcher’s had always had, and I could tell by his proud stance that this store was his life, his kingdom, and meant as much to him as the Pork Pit had to Fletcher. The man in front of me didn’t look anything like my murdered mentor, but in some ways, he was a mirror image of Fletcher. It unsettled me — and made me feel a softness toward him that he’d done absolutely nothing to earn.

I didn’t need Violet to tell me this was her grandfather, Warren T. Fox. A crotchety old coot who’d probably just as soon cuss as look at you. I knew the type. I’d been raised by one.

But Warren T. Fox wasn’t alone.

There was another man with him, someone who needed no introduction, either. Someone I already knew all too well.

Detective Donovan Caine.

15

Now I knew whom the sedan outside belonged to. It had cop car written all over it. I just didn’t realize it belonged to my cop.

The two men turned at the sound of my footsteps on the worn floor. Warren T. Fox frowned. Surprise filled Donovan Caine’s golden eyes.

“Gin?” the detective asked. “What are you doing here?”

“You know her?” Warren Fox asked. His voice was high, thin, reedy, like someone whistling through a broken flute.

“Yeah,” Caine said in a low voice. “You might say I know her.”

Well enough to sleep with me. Well enough to want to do the same again. Despite the fact I’d killed his former partner.

I opened my mouth to respond when Finn and Violet entered the store behind me. The girl walked around me, went straight to her grandfather, leaned across the wooden counter, and hugged his neck tight.

The old man’s face softened for a moment, and the sheen of moisture dampened his eyes. Then he scowled and pulled away from the younger woman.

“Where have you been?” he snapped. “I’ve been worried sick about you.”

Violet sighed. “I called you last night, Grandpa, remember? I told you I was staying with Eva.”

The old man’s brown eyes narrowed. “Yes, you called, and you sounded peculiar. But I wasn’t really worried until Eva called here this morning. She said you two were supposed to have breakfast, and you didn’t show.”

Violet’s face pinched up into an oh-shit-I’ve-just-beencaught look.

“I tried your cell phone to clarify the matter,” Warren continued. “No answer.”

“The battery died,” Violet said in a soft, desperate voice.

I didn’t know why she was still trying to stick to her story. The truth was going to come out in the next minute, two tops. I supposed Violet just wanted to spare her grandfather the ugly details about what had been done to her last night. Most people tended to block out things like that. Sometimes I wished I could do the same, instead of dwelling on the past the way I always did.

“I called the college, Eva again, and all your other friends I could remember. Nobody had seen you since last night,” Warren replied in a curt tone. “Do you know how worried I was about you? With everything that’s been going on? So I called Donovan to report you missing.”

I eyed Caine. So that’s what the detective was doing here. And from Warren’s use of his first name, it sounded like the two of them knew each other. The detective saw me looking and shrugged his lean shoulders.

Violet cringed again, and Warren opened his mouth to tear into his granddaughter some more for worrying him.

But I cut him off.

“Enough. Violet didn’t come home last night because someone tried to kill her.”

That shut him up. Warren’s mouth fell open, and he just stared at me. So did Donovan Caine. Violet shifted on her feet. Finn leaned against one of the coolers.

Amusement filled his bright green eyes.

“Now that I have your attention,” I said. “Let me tell you exactly what happened last night.”

——

The five of us ended up on the store’s wide front porch. I sat on the porch railing and leaned against one of the columns that supported the sloping tin roof. Finn was in a similar position across from me. Donovan Caine slouched on the steps between us, while Warren T. Fox and Violet rocked back and forth in two of the old-fashioned chairs.

“And there you have it,” I said, wrapping up my tale.

“That’s why Violet didn’t come home last night. Because she was a little busy getting her face put back together by an Air elemental. Her name’s Jo-Jo Deveraux. You might know her.”

Warren stared at me, his dark eyes narrowed and thoughtful. His gaze cut to Finn, then back to me. Thinking about something — or rather someone. Fletcher Lane.

“Let me get this straight, Gin,” Donovan Caine said.

“Violet went to the restaurant looking for some guy who called himself the Tin Man. Then someone shot up the Pork Pit, but you backtracked the shooter and realized he was aiming at Violet. So you used her credit card receipt to hack into her personal information and find her at Ashland Community College.

“Actually, that was me, detective,” Finn said. “The only thing Gin knows how to hack into is warm bodies.”

I shot him a dirty look. I hadn’t exactly told Warren and Violet what I used to do, but I was sure the old coot had guessed. After all, he’d known Fletcher.

Donovan shook his head, ignoring Finn’s remark. “You guys go to the college and see a dwarf attack Violet. Gin intervenes, and the two of you cart her off to some healer you know. Did I get it right?”

“More or less,” Finn replied. “Although you left out the part where I helped Gin subdue the assailant.”

“You and a monster truck,” I sniped. “I did all the hard, dirty work, if you’ll remember.”

Finn grinned at me.

At the sight, Warren Fox made a deep sound in his throat, almost like a choking cough. He stared at Finn.

“You’re the spitting image of your father when you smile like that.”

Some of the cheer drained out Finn’s green eyes.

“That’s what people tell me. He’s dead, you know. Two months now.”

Warren rocked back in his chair and nodded. “I know. Saw the obit in the newspaper.” The old man stared at Finn a moment longer, then turned to me. “And you’re Fletcher’s girl, aren’t you? The one he took in off the streets all those years ago?”

I frowned. “Yeah, I am. How do you know about that?”

Warren shrugged his stooped shoulders. “Fletcher and I might have had a falling out, but I kept tabs on him.”

Nobody said anything. But Donovan Caine looked at me, questions in his golden eyes. Despite our having slept together, the detective didn’t know about my time living on the streets — or that my family had been brutally murdered by a Fire elemental when I was thirteen. That I’d been tortured by the sadistic bitch and barely escaped with my life.