“Never mind.” I pushed past him and headed down the stairs. Once more out in the hustle of the pre-tourist season, we made our way over to his bike. Just like he’d promised, my bag was still there.

I thought about the card in my pocket from Bob-John, and the weapons dealer that I was pretty sure Sarge wouldn’t take me to. And I thought about going to see Hattie, my gran’s best friend. That tugged at me more than anything else. That old lady was like a second grandmother to me.

But I couldn’t do either of those things unless I ditched Sarge.

Which meant I needed a surefire way to get him to leave me on my own. Himself had always been totally freaked out by anything related to “woman’s time.” I was banking that Sarge would feel the same way. Especially if he was as young as he looked.

I made a face. “Look, I have to pick up some pads and tampons. That time of the month is coming, and I’m totally starting to feel the cramps, like right here.” I pointed at my lower abdomen. “Do you mind leaving me here? I can walk back to Corb’s place. And the bag isn’t heavy.”

The bike started before I was finished speaking, and Sarge was backing away, his eyes looking anywhere but at me. “Yeah, no problem. Just be at Corb’s by five-thirty.”

The engine grumbled as he revved it and did a tight turn into the slow-moving traffic before I could even wave goodbye. Leaving me to find trouble all on my own.

Just as I liked it.

9

First, I headed for Hattie’s place. Her home was between the riverfront and Corb’s loft. I was there in under five minutes, and as I stood at her front gate, I wondered how she’d made it this long without being stuffed into an old folks’ home. Only a couple of years younger than Gran, Hattie would be entering the triple age digits soon, and she still lived alone. Her home hadn’t been in great shape the last time I’d seen it, and twenty-plus years hadn’t much improved it.

Suddenly, I was glad I hadn’t come here first to stay with her. I wasn’t sure I would have lasted the night.

The pale blue paint peeled off most of the siding, chunks of it scattering the ground here and there, attached to splinters of wood. How she and the house had survived the last few years of flooding and hurricanes that came off the Atlantic was beyond me. Unlike Gran’s three-story brick house, Hattie’s was small, one story, and had only a few windows. Two of which were boarded up.

I went up and knocked on the door. “Hattie, it’s me, Breena.”