We walked another half block. I kept my head bent, ostensibly listening to something she’d said, actually using the angle to scan the reflections in car windows, shop glass, any shiny surface that would give me another look at the guy behind us.
He was still there. Same distance. Same lazy-not-lazy stride. He adjusted his hat with a quick, nervous motion.
“Okay,” I murmured. “We’re gonna make a right, then a left into the alley behind the surf shop. Narrow space. When we hit the corner, you keep going like normal. I’m going to peel off. When he passes, I’ll handle the rest.”
“Define ‘handle.’”
“Not with bullets,” I promised. “Probably.”
“That’s so reassuring.”
We turned right. The bakery fell away behind us, the smells of sugar and yeast replaced by hot asphalt and cut grass. Another right would’ve taken us toward the residential streets. Instead, I cut left, tugging her gently into the narrower space between two buildings where the shade dropped the temperature by ten degrees, which unfortunately did nothing to minimize the rank damp of dumpsters.
“Ugh,” she muttered. “You really know how to show a girl a good time.”
“Stick with me, Counselor. Full service.”
The alley jogged once, creating a blind corner. Perfect.
At the turn, I gave her a little push forward. “Keep going. Don’t look back.”
She shot me a glare but did as I said, continuing down the alley, shoulders squared like she belonged there.
I flattened myself against the wall, just out of immediate sightline, counting in my head.
One. Two. Three?—
Footsteps scuffed on the concrete. Light. Hesitant.
As soon as the guy cleared the corner, I stepped out, grabbed a fistful of the front of his T-shirt, and slammed him—not hard, but not gently, either—against the brick.
He let out a yelp that cracked upward in pitch. Up close, he was even skinnier than he’d looked in the reflections, possibly mid-twenties, dark hair curling out from under the cap, stubble patchy along his jaw. His sunglasses hung half off his face.
“Hey, hey!” he protested, hands flying up.
“Morning,” I said calmly. “Enjoying your stroll?”
“Man, what the?—”
“Who are you, and why have you been on our ass since the marina?”
His gaze flicked past my shoulder, where Madden had stopped and turned despite my instructions, because of course she had. When she saw that I wasn’t about to put the guy through the wall, she stepped closer, but not close enough to crowd.
“I—I’m Miguel,” he stammered. “Please, I’m not—I’m not trying to— It’s not like that.”
“Like what?” I tightened my grip just enough to make the brick scrape the back of his head in a way most people found motivational.
He swallowed hard. “Kelsey said you were asking questions. About the girl. About… what happened behind Home Port.”
I felt Madden’s attention sharpen beside me.
“What about it?” she asked.
Miguel looked back and forth between us, sweating now. Up close, I recognized him from behind the bar’s swinging kitchen door—dishwasher, runner, whatever the hell needed doing. Always moving, never saying much.
“I know who it was,” he blurted. “The woman. The one the drunk guy attacked. She… she wants to talk to you. But only you. No police.”
“Why didn’t she say anything when we were there?” Madden demanded. “We talked to everybody. Twice.”
