“Because Todd Smith isn’t our endgame,” Stone replied. “He’s leverage.”
I waited.
“He’s already agreed to cooperate,” Stone went on. “In exchange for protection.”
That made my stomach tighten. “From the crew.”
Stone nodded. “From the people who decided he was disposable.”
“And you’re letting Dad handle him because?—”
“Because we want them to think he’s still local jurisdiction,” Stone finished. “Comfortable. Contained. Forgotten.”
I exhaled slowly. “Which he isn’t.”
“No,” Stone said. “And neither are the others.”
He studied me again, that same assessing look. “You did good today, Pepper. But I’m going to say this once.”
I met his gaze.
“Let us handle what comes next.”
I smiled slightly. “You know I won’t.”
He smiled back. “That’s what worries me.”
Somewhere behind us, the cameras started rolling again.
And I had the distinct feeling Todd Smith wasn’t the smallest piece on the board, just the first one to fall.
CHAPTER 11
By the time Mo and I made it back home, the adrenaline had worn off, and the exhaustion had set in, at least for him.
He walked straight through the house, didn’t even pause at his water bowl, and headed directly for my bedroom. A second later I heard the unmistakable thud of a large Alaskan Malamute claiming my bed as his own.
“Traitor,” I muttered, though I knew full well if I tried to move him, I’d lose.
I changed into something comfortable, grabbed a glass of lemon water—hydration mattered, especially after watching a canine tsunami take out half a movie set—and headed up to my attic office.
I settled at my desk and opened my laptop just as the Zoom alert chimed.
Sherman Howard.
I clicked accept.
Sherman’s face filled the screen, framed by what looked like an explosion of green behind him.
“Pepper!” he said brightly. “You look like you’ve wrestled a tornado.”
“Close,” I said. “It was a Malamute.”
He laughed, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose. He was in his early thirties, perpetually cheerful, and health-conscious in a way that didn’t feel preachy. His shoulder-length,brown hair was tucked behind his ears, and behind him, I could see rows upon rows of raised garden beds.
“You wouldn’t believe the tomatoes this year,” he said, shifting his laptop slightly to show me. “Heirloom varieties only. I’ve got enough to can for three winters.”
“You’re in North Carolina,” I reminded him. “You don’t get three winters.”
