“Well, they may have all died in the great flood of ’19.”
Cooke holds his arm out, and I place my hand in his again. It’s becoming a habit already. One I like very much. God, it’s going to suck when this is over.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Bloody hell,” he says, pulling his shirt up to cover his nose and mouth. He points to my shirt, but there’s no way I’m doing that. It’ll rise and show my secrets. And by secrets, I mean my belly that I’ve kept strategically hidden beneath lots of fabric. “That smell?” He points into the room. “It’s mold. Please tell me the landlord is going to remediate.”
Remediate? “Um, I—”
“Love. You can’t live down here with mold. It’s dangerous.”
“I moved upstairs.” I grab his hand. “Come on, I’ll show you my new digs.” I pull him up the basement steps and through the kitchen, into the living room, to the stairs leading to the top floor. “See?” I point to my little area known as the niche.
“Love.” Cooke’s face is scrunched up. “You can’t live like this.”
“What’s wrong with it? It’s warm and dry.” And there aren’t any spiders to speak of. Well, there was one, but he was a little guy.
“Darling.” He places one hand on each of my shoulders. “I can’t have you living like this.”
“Huh?” What does he mean by that? “This is fine. The girls aren’t loud—well, very loud.”
“Quinn.” Cooke bends down until we’re face-to-face. “I—”
Just then, my stupid phone rings. I want to ignore it so I can hear what he was going to say, but he smiles and says, “Answer it.” He nods at the ringing phone. “Go on.”
I quickly find the phone in my small purse. “Hello?” The second I know who it is, I add, “Oh, hi, Gage.”
“Who’s Gage?” he mouths, frowning.
Holding my hand over the phone, I tell Cooke, “It’s the police officer who’s looking into my scooter.”
His frown is still there.
Turning back to my phone call, I hear Gage say, “I have some news.”
“You do? What?”
“I was able to locate the person who damaged your scooter.”
“Okay.” I wait, but he says nothing. “Can you tell me, or is it not allowed?”
“It was Kara Becker.”
I’m shocked, sort of. I suspected her, but in my mind, I didn’t think she would go that far. “Do you know for sure?”
“Her vehicle had damage, and traces of paint from your multicolored scooter were on her car and most importantly, your helmet was jammed up between the frame and the muffler.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were. She was adamant that she had nothing to do with it until we took her car in and got it up on a lift. Your pink helmet was right there.”
I so want to ask if it was okay, but I think I know the answer. “So, what happens next?”
“We’ve charged her with hit-and-run.”
“Is that serious?”
“Very. Leaving the scene of any accident is frowned upon by law enforcement.”
