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

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.