I take a second to place the name, then frown as my eyes adjust to the dimmer lighting. “You’re the private investigator?”
“That’s right.” He shuffles a step closer, and I reach into my bag. There’s nothing in there more dangerous than a cell phone, but this man doesn’t know that. He stops in his tracks before retreating one step. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Sure. You’re hanging around my place of work late at night because you didn’t want to frighten me.” I glance back at the doorway, pleased to see Trent has replaced the guard that was there. “What’s this about?”
“I just need a few details about the night Robbie McClure went missing. Thought I’d call in the extra time you already paid yourself for.”
But I’m shaking my head before he’s halfway through the sentence. “Try making an appointment instead of showing up like a stalker and you might get somewhere.”
Trent ventures all the way outside since the guy doesn’t appear to be taking the hint. The pungent odour of weed and alcohol that suffused the air around the PI when we first met has gone, but he can’t be sober if he thinks this is how requests work.
“This is me making an appointment.” Riley turns his attention to Trent as he moves closer, clenching his arms until his biceps are as thick as tree trunks. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Then you have extraordinarily bad timing,” Trent answers in a growl. “You heard the lady. Take off and use your phone the next time you want to meet.”
“Sure,” the PI says with an amiable smile. “I could do that. Or I could just show you this thing that a little birdie tells me is covered with your prints.”
The blood leaves my head so quickly I’m about to keel over. Trent reaches out to steady me as a loud buzzing fills my ears. “Get lost. I won’t tell you again.”
“Or what?”
Trent moves toe to toe with the man, who still doesn’t give an inch despite being hopelessly outclassed. “Or I’ll force you to leave and believe me, it’ll be my pleasure.”
“Then this gun goes straight to the police.”
He draws the weapon from the waistband of his jeans. It looks ridiculous, sitting inside a little baggie.
Then my throat clutches as I try to swallow. I reach for my phone.
“Nuh, huh, huh,” Riley says, showing his teeth. “That isn’t how this is going to go.”
I reach out for Trent’s hand, pulling him back beside me. “What d’you want?”
“To do my job. My client wants to know what happened to her son and I’ve been told you have the answers.”
I’ve been told. But who would tell him that?
Not Zach. Not in a million years, even if he wanted to land me in trouble. All I have to do is tell this man who pulled the trigger first and his head would be on the plate.
Caylon?
I glance at Trent, whose face is as uneasy as mine.
“Fine,” I say with a mouthful of spit. Swallowing doesn’t seem possible with my throat muscles hard as rock. “Ask away.”
“I will, but first I need to take you on a brief drive.”
Trent and I both say, “No.”
“Don’t mean to contradict either of you but”—he waggles the baggie—“the guy with the gun gets to dictate the terms, so follow me.”
“You don’t need Trent.”
“I wouldn’t have, but since he poked his head in, I do.”
Fuck. If he’d just gone back inside, he could have been calling for help right now. A fact Trent’s worked out for himself if the misery written on his face is a clue.
“It’ll be okay,” he whispers, taking my hand. “Stay behind me.”
