Shyla was kneeling on her bedroom floor sorting through the stack of letters she’d been telling herself to deal with for months. Figuring out if there was anything worth keeping was the last thing on her to-do list. She’d just finished when a car horn blared outside.
The whole street was residential and occupied by the elderly. There wasn’t a lot of noise or hubbub, so even a car horn would stir attention. Leaping to her feet, she read the time on her wall clock: ten after noon.
Guessing Tench was responsible for the horn, Shyla grabbed her heaviest case and pulled it out of her bedroom and down the stairs. When she got to the first floor, Mick came running down the hallway from the kitchen.
“Hey! Hey! Hey!” he called out. “You have to open that up.”
Just the question felt like a violation. Shyla didn’t have anything to hide but didn’t want Michael Sedgewick rooting through her underwear and private possessions either.
“I have to… what?”
“I have to make sure you didn’t take anything that belongs to the house.”
“I didn’t,” she said, certain her face was flaming.
Her first reaction wasn’t offense, it was embarrassment. That anyone could think she was capable of stealing was upsetting in the first place. But someone believing she could steal from the man she’d cared for and loved like a second grandfather devastated her.
“I won’t know unless you show me,” Mick said, gesturing at the case and taking a short step back. “Open it up.”
Shyla liked to think she could get along with most people. Although gregarious wasn’t a word that could be used to describe her, she could talk to people when their paths crossed—as long as she didn’t have to ask them for anything… like a job. But “people” didn’t tend to make invasive requests. Despite her discomfort, she wasn’t sure that she even knew how to object.
As she was about to acquiesce, the doorbell rang. Both she and Mick turned to look at the oval glass panel in the front door. On the other side was a young man with dirty blonde hair. He cupped a hand against his face to peer through the non-distorted part of the etched glass.
Just seeing his disarming smile brought one to her face too. When he waved, she almost laughed. Shyla had never seen him before in her life but could tell that she liked him already.
“Who is that?” Mick demanded, stamping the few steps to the door to pull it open. “Who are you?”
“Russell,” the guy said, thrusting a hand toward Mick.
At six foot tall, the guy was no slouch; even though he’d been hunched over when they first saw him. Without the door in the way, Shyla could see his impressive physique beneath his pristine white tee-shirt.
“We’re not buying anything,” Mick barked and tried to close the door.
Fish, as she was supposed to call him, slapped a defined forearm flat on the door to prevent it from closing. He maintained his smile, in spite of startling Mick with his abrupt action. Picking his wraparound shades from his floppy hair, he dropped them over his eyes.
“I’m not selling,” Fish said, patting his front pockets. “I’m not carrying…” He pointed at her. “I’m Shyla’s friend…” His head tilted in her direction, away from Mick. “Right?”
Her smile grew as she nodded. “Yes… Yes, this is my friend.”
“Your friend?” Mick spat out the words, but was too stunned—and probably too scared—to object when Fish stepped up into the entryway.
Just by moving forward, Fish managed to get Mick out his way without ever touching the guy. “This to go?” he asked, pointing at her suitcase.
Shyla’s smile faltered. Her fingers slid between each other, a sure sign of her anxiety. “Uh… yes, but—”
“I have to check that before it leaves,” Mick said.
Holding the top handle of the case, Fish rocked the suitcase back at an angle to look at it. “Check it for what? Looks secure to me.”
“I need to check inside,” Mick said and tried to edge closer.
Fish stepped between him and the suitcase, blocking his way. “Does it belong to you?” he asked. Mick was too dumbfounded to respond. At only five foot eight, and without having seen a gym maybe ever in his entire life, Shyla doubted that he wanted to take Fish on. “Does anything inside it belong to you?”
“That’s what I have to check.”
“Oh,” Fish said and looked to her. “Everything in this suitcase belong to you?” She nodded, so he grinned again. “Great! Problem solved.”
Picking up the case like it weighed as much as a pillow, he started for the door.
Mick hurried after him. “I can’t take her word for it,” he protested. “I have to check.”
Fish put the suitcase down, then lifted his glasses back onto the top of his head. “You got a warrant?”
“A… a what?”
“A search warrant,” Fish said. “I’ve got this friend. Beeks. He tells me to always read the warrant and to, you know, only let folks search what it says on the paper… If there’s a warrant, I should go along with it he says, you know, and he’ll fix the problems they find later. So…”
Opening a hand to Mick, Fish was patient about waiting for the paperwork.
Given that it didn’t exist, Mick began to bluster. “I… don’t have a search warrant. I’m not a police officer.”
“Oh,” Fish said, slapping his shoulder in a friendly, but firm, gesture before returning his glasses to his face. “If it’s not a legal problem, then Beeks’ rules don’t count, Score’s do.”
“I… What
