And the way Taryn had asked all the right questions?That had his mind reeling, even as they walked the hallway, side by side.
Then she said under her breath, ‘You know, Izzy said you had the vibe of someone who’d run a drug cartel.’
Finn snorted.
‘Do you ever get tired of being intimidating for a living?’
‘Nope.’And for the second time that day, he almost smiled.
‘You’re welcome, you know.’
He wasn’t about to give her a pat on the back, not when he could give her something better—exactly what she wanted.‘There’s more to the Gaps File.And I’ve got a copy of the prosecution’s case file Izzy helped build on Everlight.The names, dates, patterns, everything to do with Everlight Energy Solutions and your cousin’s murder.’
She stopped walking.‘Where?’
‘At the house.I kept a copy because I never trusted paperwork in the hands of the Feds.’
She arched an eyebrow at him—the very picture of said Fed, in boots, badge, and sass.
‘Come by tonight.We can use the spare room’s walls, instead of using rocks as paperweights.Oh, and you can bring dinner.The food fairy hasn’t been around lately, so you’re it.’
She blinked as if caught off guard, just for a second.
And for once?
No comeback or any biting last word.
Hell, he’d take that as a win.
Twenty
The old wagon coughed a lungful of black smoke as it lumbered to a rolling stop under the lone gum tree.Theshould’ve-been-retiredpolice wagon’s sun-faded decals peeled like sunburnt skin, and the aircon had given up somewhere back near the turnoff.Not that Taryn could blame it when she was considering the same.
Still, she was here, even if the wagon groaned and creaked in protest as she shut the driver’s door.
Freshly showered and changed, with dinner bags in one hand, she tucked a small box under her arm containing enough stationery supplies to start her own store.Finn’s mud map was tucked into her back pocket, complete with a note:Key’s under the busted tail-light.Don’t cut yourself.
Typical.
Finn’s place was tucked away, about twenty minutes from town.It was a low-slung house on stumps, shaded by old gum trees and wrapped in silence.
A Harley staunchly sat under the verandah, its polished chrome sparkling.Amara had mentioned, during her interview, that Finn had two that he’d dragged in a trailer behind the troopy in their cross-country tour of the livestock industry.So where was the second motorbike?
She climbed the steps, the dinner bags rustling.
The note had said busted tail-light.But there were two cracked specimens, who’d retired to front door guard duty, as Finn’s form of pot plants or garden gnomes.
She picked the left light.Checked underneath, and there it was: a key, tucked in behind a rusted bracket.
The front door opened with a sigh.Inside, she found the second Harley, dead centre of the living room, in mid-repair on a tarp.Grease-stained rags kept it company, along with an assortment of tools lined up with military precision, and a single lamp bent over the engine like a spotlight gone to sleep.
Piled against the other wall was a stack of vinyl records, beside a record player.There was no couch.Not even a TV.With nothing on the walls but faded paint.
In the other corner stood a group of rolled maps.
Figured, he had a thing for maps.When Finn had maps clustered in the troopy, or covering the large round table in the Batcave, and now, here, lined up like fat toilet rolls.Although some looked ancient.
But the rest of the place was completely clutter-free.
