I opened it, expecting my woman to be there, ready to chew me out, kiss me, or throw me snark. But it was a man standing on my porch. Older than me—late thirties, maybe early forties—he wore a quality suit, a smug authoritative vibe, and an almost undetectable sneer.

Almost.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

He flashed a badge that was unnecessary. I could smell the law enforcement on him. “Are you Ward Garrison?”

I didn’t bother confirming what we both already knew.

“You know a woman named Jane Davis?”

I knew a woman with the last name Davis—for then—but her first name wasn’t Jane.

I didn’t share that, either.

“Do you?” he prodded.

“No.”

“She might be going by Mac or MacKenna,” he continued. “But her real name is Jane. Just plain Jane.”

That couldn’t be true because nothing—not a damn thing— about Mac was plain.

“You sure you don’t know her?”

“I’m sure.”

“That’s odd because she seems to know you.” He pulled an envelope from the inner breast pocket of his suit coat and held it out. “This is an emergency restraining order. You’re not to get within a hundred yards of Miss Davis.”

This is gotta be a fuckin’ joke.

A bad one.

Scanning the area for whoever was behind the bullshit, I took the outstretched envelope. I pulled out the thick paper and skimmed it.

It looked legit. Seals, stamps, signatures.

Every-fuckin’-thing you’d expect to see on a goddamn restraining order.

“The fuck is this shit?”

“I told you. Miss Davis was granted an emergency restraining order. Since she resides next door at her friend’s house, you will need to find alternate accommodations.”

“Friend’s house?”

“House belongs to an Alice Anderson, who inherited it when an aunt died. I assumed it was a friend, but I could be wrong.”

It didn’t make any sense. None of it made any damn sense.

Except she’d just heard me talking about beating a man into a coma.

Is she scared of me now? That scared that she took out a restraining order?

I stayed stoned face. “We done here?”

“We will be once I see you relocate yourself at least a hundred yards in the direction of your choosing.”

Punching a cop—detective, whatever the hell he was—would be a bad idea. Getting tossed in a cage wouldn’t help a thing.

But at that moment, I was tempted to do it anyway.

“A word of advice?” he asked.

I didn’t need one. Not from a stranger. Not from a cop.

He gave it anyway. “I’m doing you a favor here. I looked into Miss Davis. She’s got a history of dramatics. Exaggerating. Embellishments. Whatever you want to call it.”

That wasn’t true.

“Point is, she’s got a history of lying.”