I stared at it.

Then I sent voodoo vibes of evil I did not have the skill to accurately deliver (or any skill at all) in Peggy’s direction for being whatever the hell she was and doing it with very bad timing.

After I failed at that endeavor and got my head together, I shoved the envelope in my purse and got back to work.

* * * * *

Garrett

Garrett stood on the tiny balcony of his shit condo and lit a cigarette as he listened to the phone ring in his ear.

He snapped the top of the Zippo closed and looked out at his stellar view of a parking lot that led to another building of condos, none of which were remotely pretty.

“Yo,” his friend and brother-in-law, Tanner Layne, said in his ear.

Garrett exhaled and replied, “Yo, big man, you got a minute?”

“Sure,” Tanner answered.

“Listen, I need a favor.”

“This a favor that’s gonna take a lot of my time, none of which I’ll get paid for, or is this a favor that’s gonna mean me pickin’ up your mail ’cause you’re headed to a beach?”

This was a valid question. Tanner was a private investigator, a good one. Garrett was a cop. Being a cop, there were rules. Being a PI, those rules were a lot looser. Garrett needed his brother-in-law when he needed loose, something that happened often, and he didn’t hesitate to ask.

Tanner usually didn’t hesitate to deliver.

Still, he bitched about it.

“Not a lotta your time, but it’s important. You find it hard to fit in, I’ll make it worth your while and pay your fees,” Garrett told him.

Tanner said nothing.

This was also a valid response. Garrett had never offered this in exchange for services rendered.

Finally, Tanner spoke. “Jesus. What’s the favor?”

“Need you to look into some people for me. Man’s name is Trent. His wife’s name is Peg. Don’t know where they live. My guess is Indy but could be anywhere relatively close. Don’t know their last name. Just know you’ll probably find it, you look up the birth certificate of Ethan Rivers née Sheckle, seein’ as Trent’s his birth father.”

“Fuck,” Tanner muttered, then instantly jumped to the obvious conclusion. “Cher got some problems?”

“Yeah,” Garrett told him, not giving that first fuck that he’d promised Cher he wouldn’t tell anyone she had issues.

First, because Tanner would keep it on the down low. Second, because that stick-up-her-ass bitch was not going to get her hands on Ethan. Cher was not going to lose her son. The woman had been through enough. The time that she had headaches outside of the normal ones good folks had was over.

That was a decision Garrett had made the minute they’d had their conversation, and it wasn’t because he’d fucked her.

It was because she was Cher and she was a Cher he’d now fucked.

“According to her,” he continued, “Peg’s not big on her husband’s blood livin’ with an ex-stripper or the rest of the baggage Denny Lowe landed on her.”