Banks sinks a knee onto the guy’s back.
“Get the fuck off me,” the asshole mutters in between gasping breaths.
With anger pouring off his body in waves, Banks fumes at him, “Like I told you before, get away from my girlfriend. And her sister.” Hudson jumps in front of the guy, barking right at his face.
“Fucking dogs,” the guy grumbles.
Banks jerks the guy’s wrists harder, handling him in a whole different way than he handles me. “And don’t even think about touching her dog.”
The helpless photographer kicks his feet as if he can escape that way. But it’s like watching a cartoon character try to free himself from under an anvil. Banks is impassable as Hudson barks angrily at the guy who’s trespassed in his maze.
And the man who swore he’d protect me turns to me with passion and fire and love in his deep-brown eyes.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” he asks with such worry that my heart breaks beautifully.
“I’m okay. I kicked him in the balls!” I bounce on my feet, a surge of post-ball-kick adrenaline coursing through me.
“And I was about to mace him if you hadn’t,” Haven says, waving a small pink tube.
“Twin tricks,” I say, then, flooded with relief, I hug my sister, and I’d really like to fall into Banks’s arms too, but he’s busy restraining the guy who’s clearly so pissed at me for turning him down, at Banks for saving the day, and at himself for failing to take a picture of me in the wild back then, that he followed us into a maze tonight.
Only it’s my maze, my farm, my home. As Banks jerks him up from the ground, keeping a firm grip on his hands, I stare at the guy who does indeed look like the douchey boss in a movie. He’s got a fancy dress shirt on tonight too. I guess he thinks he doesn’t look like a scumbag photographer, but he does look like a scum.
“Guess you missed the shot a second time, asshole,” I say, then smile at the jerk.
And we leave the maze.
53
ORIGAMI SEA
RIPLEY
Sheriff Simmon flips her notebook closed, then pushes her beige hat farther on her head. “Thanks for all the info, Ripley. That’ll be real useful,” she says, standing on the farmhouse porch.
“No problem,” I say.
“And you too, Haven,” she says, nodding to my sister.
“Happy to help,” Haven says.
Sheriff Simmon knows us both because she goes way back. She’s been the sheriff in Darling Springs for about fifteen years.
“You’re taking him in on trespassing?” Banks confirms, his arm locked protectively around my waist. He hasn’t let go of me since he handed off that asshole to the authorities. Chris contacted them while we were in the maze, and they arrived quickly.
“Yes, we are. Assault too,” the sheriff adds.
“Good. Thanks for coming so quickly,” he says.
She nods, then says to me, “We’ll be in touch. And thanks again for sending Chloe my way. She’s great with Baxter.”
“Glad to hear. Spicy Chihuahuas are her specialty.”
“He’s the spiciest.” She and her deputy return to their vehicle, where Ian Joseph stews in the backseat, handcuffed.
While Sheriff Simmon was taking Haven’s statement, Banks told me Ian Joseph has been freelancing recently for some online celeb sites, trying to make a fast buck or two to get out of debt. He’s the one who snapped the picture of Banks and me outside Prohibition Spirit the other night and set it loose online—not my ex. Guess Ian remembered, too, that Banks had called me his girlfriend once upon a time, and he had a bone to pick.
Ian’s also the one who took the shot of Haven and me inside that night. And based on what Banks told the sheriff—a bunch of people had taken Chris and Haven’s picture when they left the wrap party—it seems Ian was among them and followed the car unseen to the farm, then parked far away and entered on the other side of my property. Haven was right when she said some photographers are really good at staying hidden to get the shot they want. He must have stayed out of sight earlier this week at the bar, and again tonight.
