“Just got a minute between rushes.” The clatter of dishes drifted behind her voice. “What’s wrong?”
Cole took a breath. “Chuck called. Your car’s a total loss. Cost to fix it outweighs what it’s worth.”
Her exhale came through the line. “Easy for him tosay.”
“I know. But maybe it’s time to let your aunt help. You still need wheels, whether you find Avery or not.”
She was quiet a moment. “Alright. I’ll talk to her. The PI stopped in this morning. He’s coming back at one so we can sit down.”
“Good.” Cole straightened the pens on his desk. “How about dinner Saturday at The Hartland? Six o’clock. I’ll make a reservation.”
Her voice softened. “That sounds nice.”
“I’ll pick you up. You can stay over and I’ll bring you home Sunday afternoon.”
“Okay.” He heard the relief in her sigh. “Thanks, Cole.”
“See you soon.” He hung up, set the phone down, and ran a hand through his hair. Still a full day ahead.
Chapter Nine
Aftyn shoved her phone into her pocket, exhaled a weary sigh, and pushed through the swinging door back into the diner. The smell of coffee and maple syrup washed over her. Her mind kept circling back to Peterson while her stomach knotted over the car. If Avery hadn’t cleaned out her account she could have put a down payment on something reliable. Instead, she was surviving on tips and Connie’s patience.
She massaged her temple, remembering how she’d stood in that empty apartment, Avery’s closet bare except for hangers. She wanted to confront her face to face, and she knew exactly how it would go. Avery would roll those mascara-heavy eyes and wait for the familiar pattern, Aftyn’s anger followed by forgiveness. Not this time. Not after this. The bank manager had given her copies of the withdrawals before freezing the account and then came the calls to the credit card companies. That was when she’d gone to the police. When no one followed up, she’d decided to find Avery herself.
The afternoon sun slanted through the windows as she peeled off her apron. The bell above the door tinkled and Peterson stepped in, leather folder tucked under his arm, polished shoes clicking on thelinoleum. At least he was punctual. Connie caught her eye from behind the counter and gave an encouraging nod.
“Wish me luck,” Aftyn whispered.
Connie wiped her hands on a towel. “You got this, honey. Maybe he’ll finally pin down where she is.” She offered an encouraging smile.
Aftyn smoothed her shirt and walked into the dining area. Peterson rose from a stool by a corner table and extended his hand, grip firm and cool.
“Right on time. Let’s sit.” She guided him to a secluded booth. He slid in first before she could, and she pressed her lips together. Some men never learned. She slid in across from him.
He opened his briefcase, lifted out a folder, and flipped it open. A photograph sat on top, her sister’s familiar profile, hair tucked behind one ear.
“I’m confident she’s still in town. This was taken two days ago.” He kept his voice low. “I checked several places she could be staying in Clifton, Hartland, and Spring City, but no one would give me anything. Guest privacy. I have other ways though.”
Aftyn leaned forward and studied the photo. A dark green awning stretched over a storefront behind her sister. “Is that the liquor store up the block?”
“Yes. I watched her go in and come out with what looked like a job application.”
Her chest tightened. “She’s still looking for work. She must be planning to stay.”
“Or saving enough to leave.” He shrugged.
“Like I am,” she murmured.
He turned to the next page. “I lost her in the crowd after that. She was alone. Your aunt mentioned your husband?”
“Ex-husband.” She set her jaw. “I suspect they’retogether.”
He offered an amused smirk. “Never underestimate a woman’s intuition.” His gaze flickered briefly to her lips. Aftyn stiffened. He was flirting, and she had no interest in it.
She studied him under the fluorescent lights. Crisp white dress shirt pulled taut across broad shoulders, sleeves buttoned precisely at the cuff, dark blond hair slicked back without a strand out of place. Too polished. Since coming to Clifton, she’d grown used to men whose hands bore honest callouses, whose skin smelled of hay and leather and early mornings. Sterling Peterson looked like the inside of a barn was a foreign concept. She knew some women would find that kind of elegance appealing. She wasn’t one of them. Not after Cole’s hands had made her pulse quicken. Just thinking about him made her shiver.
“Cold?” Peterson asked.
