“Yes! He said, this is what he said. He said, ‘Bring it on, old man.’” Dan stabbed a finger down with each word as if he’d just hammered the last nails into Chris Lagon’s coffin. “He wants me out of the picture. He wants the rhubarb trophy.”
I doubted Chris wanted anything other than to get Dan out of his hair.
“Can you tell me when this happened?”
He might be angry and bitter, but I was the chief of police. It was possible he had information that would lead me to who in town felt the need to interrupt my morning coffee with an explosion.
“Six o’clock.”
“Were there witnesses?”
“Yes. Yes, there was. Ryder Bailey was there. You can ask him. He saw it all.”
My heart skipped at the mention of his name.
I’d had a…what did one call a crush that started when one was eight and that one still hadn’t been able to shake? Obsession? Longing? Sickness?
Love,my treacherous heart whispered.
I ignored it.
But whatever it was, I’d had that for Ryder for years.
It had just never worked out for me to ask him if he wanted to date. Either he’d be in the middle of a relationship, or I would. Or we were too busy with school, jobs, and family—or in my case: monsters, gods, and exploding rhubarb—to ever make a step forward.
It was probably better that way. Less complicated.
“Anyone else?” I asked, keeping it cool. Keeping it professional.
“No, but he was there. He knows Chris Lagon blew up my rhubarb in cold blood, and tried to kill me along the way. I demand you arrest him.”
Following demands wasn’t in my job description. Still, I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile.
“I’ll stop by Ryder’s place after I’m done here. Now, why don’t you tell me where you were when the explosion went off?”
Ben and Jame had the fire under control and I was just about to call my sister, Myra, for some help with the crime scene when she showed up.
Myra always showed up when she was most needed. It was her thing.
“Hey there, chief,” Myra said. “Brought you some coffee.”
I gave her an appreciative nod and took the paper cup.
If someone lined up us three Reed sisters, one might think we all came from different parents. But if one paid attention to our eyes, one would realize we were most definitely our father and mother’s girls.
I took after Dad the most: straight brown hair, square cheekbones, athletic build, and a mostly easygoing, responsible nature over a temper I’d learned to mellow with humor. I was in shape from the job and jogging habit, and never went out of my way to wear makeup or heels. The one time Jean had forced me into a push-up bra, she’d whistled and told me I should wear it during interrogations because people would lose their minds faced with the dangerously sexy cleavage it gave me.
I’d slapped her phone away before she took blackmail pictures, and gave her back the damn bra.
Myra was the middle sister. Her hair was dark, almost black, and the blunt bangs over her eyebrows only accented the blue of her eyes. Her face had softer edges and a more generous mouth. Even without a push-up bra, her figure was curvy perfection that the square-cut uniform she was wearing couldn’t hide.
She had also inherited a lot more of Mom’s practical thinking, to the point that some people might say she was cool or clinical, though I never saw her that way.
Jean, the youngest, had deep blue eyes and was always dying her hair with colors not found in nature. She was the most petite of the three of us, had a wicked sense of humor, and an elbows-out attitude about life.
“Where do you need me?” Myra asked.
“Get some pictures of the scene and the blast area. I’m almost done with Dan’s statement, then I’ll talk to the neighbors.”
