I ignore the jab. “The mugging—any chance it’s connected to the one your parents went through years ago?”
“What mugging?” Her brow furrows, creating an adorable little crease between her eyes.
“About twenty years back. Armed robbery, similar M.O. to your incident.”
I glance between the road and her, wanting to gauge her reaction.
“Why would you think...” She trails off, confusion clear on her face. “My parents were never robbed. Who told you that?”
I remain silent, which only seems to frustrate her further.
“Look,” she says, exasperation coloring her tone, “if Dad had been through something like that, he would have told me. He was there in the hospital after my attack, holding my hand. He would have mentioned a similar experience.”
“Unless he wanted to protect you,” I suggest.
She scoffs. “Protect me from what? Knowing he could relate? No, you’re barking up the wrong tree here, Sherlock. Dad was never robbed, period.”
“Maybe ask him or your siblings?—”
“No,” she cuts me off. “There’s no point bothering them with wild goose chases. Nothing happened, end of story.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, dropping the subject. She’s not lying—that much is clear. She has no knowledge of the old mugging. But my gut tells me there’s more to this story.
Whatever Mr. Valeur is hiding, he’s keeping Cora in the dark, too. And that doesn’t sit well with me at all.
Eight
CORA
Istand in front of the weathered sign reading “Jimmy’s Krav Maga,” the paint peeling at its edges. The industrial park around us stands deserted, a ghost town on a weekend afternoon.
“Having second thoughts?” Ryder’s deep voice rumbles from behind me.
I turn to face him, my heart skipping at his proximity. “I don’t want to fight you,” I blurt out, heat creeping up my neck. Images of his muscular body pinning me to the mat flash unbidden through my mind.
He quirks an eyebrow, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Afraid I’ll bruise that delicate ego of yours? Why do you think you’ll be fighting me?”
“I just—” I stammer, flustered. “I thought you said?—”
“I said you need to learn self-defense, not that I’d be your personal punching bag.” A hint of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth.
“Then who’s teaching me?” Disappointment floods through me. What’s wrong with me? First, I didn’t want him to train me, and now I don’t want someone else?
Make up your mind, Cora.
“Jimmy,” he says, nodding toward the building.
I look back at the sign above the entrance. “This Jimmy?”
“Yes.”
“He’s your friend?”
“Yes.”
I purse my lips.
“Can we go in, or do you have more questions?”
