Dr. Hannel said “building trust takes time.” It made me want to smack him. I didn’t have time.
I flipped on my turning signal at the store’s entry and immediately saw him at the very back of the lot. He’d unloaded all their things on the concrete around him. Boxes, a toy bin, and a kid’s mattress. Boxes were untaped per our agreement.
There wasn’t much. It was enough to fit into my truck bed—no problem.
Honestly, I was surprised the dimwit followed through on the plan. I guessed for Chris, money talked.
I pulled up beside him, double checking the wad of cash in my back pocket. With each passing second, adrenaline poured by the gallon into my veins. My muscles twitched with anticipation at the upcoming fight. I nearly trembled with rage. Seeing Chris face to face—and allowing him to live to tell the tale—was going to take a level of strength I rarely exerted.
I absolutely planned to throw a couple punches at the guy because he couldn’t do a thing about it. He wouldn’t be calling authorities, considering the warrant.
Ideal scenario.
He was leaning against the tailgate of the truck. I’m not the best judge of handsome, but it pissed me off to no end that the man was halfway decent looking. Not sure why that accelerated me toward my breaking point.
I guessed he was about 5’11”, brown hair, medium build.
My jaw ached and sweat beaded on my neck already.
“You ready for this?”
I grunted. “Can’t wait.”
“Looks like he did what you asked.”
“Seems like.” I jerked the keys out of the ignition. “You’re going to keep me from killing him, right?”
“Yep.”
“Good.” I opened my door, subconsciously adjusting the glock on my hip. Ohio was an open carry state, so my weapon was in plain view.
I stepped out of the truck, slamming the door behind me.
I spoke in the tone I used at work. Clipped, hurried, commanding. “Christopher Bernstein?”
A slow nod was the only response.
“Are these their things?” I nodded toward the haphazard line of moving boxes.
“They are.” He looked me over, probably sizing me up. Couldn’t judge—I was doing the same. Chris’ build was likePat’s—lean, swift. If a brawl ensued, he’d have me on speed. I boxed with Pat a couple times, and when I nailed him, he was down for a minute. But, he was scrappy and quick. Chris crossed his arms over his chest, unimpressed. “You got the money?”
“Yes. But we load first.” I pointed to the boxes and said to Pat. “Check them.” Pat flipped open the flaps, making sure we had the things we came for. Books, toys, some kitchen equipment, and most importantly—her scrapbook stuff.
Chris waited impatiently as Pat looked through boxes. I didn’t dare bend over or take my attention off him. Had no idea what this loser was capable of.
He was eyeing my weapon. “Miranda never called me back.”
“She doesn’t need to. She and Kacey aren’t your concern anymore.”
“Arent my concern? I’ve been taking care of them for years.”
“Takingcare?” I scoffed. Raised my voice. “You attacked her!”
His tone was cool. “I didn’t hit her. She fell.”
“Willing to stick to that in a court of law?”
He said nothing.
