“Dad, please.”
“And you.” He points at me. “What kind of a man makes the girl pay for the weekend like this?”
In the kitchen, I fix myself a cup of coffee. I don’t ask him if he wants one, because he’s being a dick and he’s under the impression I’m gonna take his shit. Cup in hand, I walk out of the kitchen and lean against the bar, standing barely two feet from the cop. He even smells like a cop. The scent repulses me.
I sip my coffee, then put it down. “She’s not paying for the cabin. This is my house.”
Sheriff Bentley turns to Isla, who stands at the bottom of the stairs. “You booked this house. I know you did because I have a receipt for the deposit. What did you use the money for? Drugs?”
“Christ, Dad. He’ll refund the initial night.”
“Why would he do that?”
Here we go.
“Because…” She wrings her hands. “There was a mix-up, and Stefan here said I could stay for free because of it.”
“And so you two stayed here together?”
I approach the sheriff, touching my chest to his. “Get out of my house.”
The sheriff’s eyes take on a dangerous cold gleam, and I can tell when a man decides on a target. “This isn’t the end of it, boy.”
My temper rises, but I clamp down on it and extend a hand toward Isla. Head down, she drags the suitcase out the door, her dad following behind her.
9
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I walk to the window to see a cop car in my driveway. Damn it. How could I have been so reckless with my place and taken in a girl I hadn’t screened prior to planning on marrying her?
I remember ever so clearly that I thought of Sokol and how I aimed to give him a call and screen little Miss Perfect-Tits-and-Ass, but then I kept staring at those tits and ass and the beautiful, quiet, sweet girl who rolled with the punches and wanted a bit of weekend fun. I forgot all about my safety, the family’s safety, and the entire fucking world.
The sheriff peels out of my driveway, and I memorize his plates. I run upstairs, throw all my shit into my duffel, and grab my pieces. The Beretta under the bed, the S&W in the bathroom, the Walther under the third step, etcetera. I put out the fireplace and call Homer, tell him I’m leaving. I explain nothing, but tell him to clean up and prep the cabin for showing because I’m selling this bitch.
On my way down, I’m dialing Sokol. He answers on the second ring.
“I need you to run a check on a girl,” I say.
“Good morning, sunshine. How’s winter in Vermont?”
“Cold.”
“Same here.” We live in Chicago.
In the garage, I grab the two .45s I stash there, and the deer food catches my eye.
“Ludi?” Sokol says.
“Yeah.”
“I need a name.”
“Isla Bentley.”
“That sounds familiar. Why does that sound familiar?”
“It fucking shouldn’t.” It should, actually, since he ran her daddy last month before I got the order.
“I’m detecting personal interest here. You pining for this girl? Oh wait, is that the one the rings are for?”
