That was the first time a little warning bell ticked off in my head.
Evil witch or not, Sunny Harper had some sort of spell over me.
And I needed to be careful.
26
DARBY
Ilifted my beer mug to my lips, hiding half my face as Jagg blew past me, Sunny’s hand in his. I wasn’t sure if he’d seen me—but I’d be stupid to think he hadn’t. It probably didn’t matter that I’d taken extra care to slip in through the back door and sneak into the corner where, lucky me, a pitcher of beer had been abandoned.
Coming to Frank’s had been a gamble. But when Jagg hadn’t left the station until past eight, I knew exactly where he’d end up if not home. The man loved his evening whiskey. Double. Neat.
So I’d taken the shortcut while he took the scenic route, probably hoping to spot a certain blue four-door sedan along the way.
I’d rehearsed my story in the parking lot—something about an old friend traveling through town who just happened to be late. Didn’t matter. Jagg never approached me. Didn’t even look in my direction.
He was too busy driving the final nail into his career.
And he did it with the kind of knight-in-shining-armor move I couldn’t have pulled off if I tried. I’d have trippedhalfway to Sunny, probably straight into the Aldridge twins—who, thanks to Jagg, I now knew used the bar bathrooms for more than lipstick touch-ups.
I watched the whole thing unfold while sipping warm beer that tasted like urine. The second Jagg saw Sunny, he changed—shoulders squared, chest lifted, eyes sharp. The man was tunnel-visioned. Hypnotized.
Bewitched.
He moved like a missile, straight to her. Laser-focused. And then he dismantled two drunk cowboys with the kind of swift, bone-snapping precision that told me this wasn’t his first time. The problem? It was excessive. Reckless. The kind of stunt that gets you a misconduct review. Maybe even stripped of your badge.
All for her.
What was it about Sunny Harper?
I’d gotten there before him, watched her for ten minutes. She walked into Frank’s and heads turned immediately. At first, I thought it was her looks. Then the whispers started.
“Killer.”
“Murderer.”
“Witch.”
“Devil worshipper.”
And the final cherry on top:“White-trash bitch.”
She didn’t flinch. Just stepped up to the bar, asked for her takeout, and waited. Taunting them all with nothing but her presence.
Then I watched her stand there, calm as could be, while Jagg kicked those cowboys’ asses—risking his career for her.
And she let him.
Screw that.
Screw that kind of woman.
I shoved the beer aside and pulled out my phone.
Me: He just left with her.
Lieutenant Colson: Where to?
