“Exactly,” I told him. “We have some people to talk to. Let’s go.”
He followed me downstairs.
I grabbed the keys to my pickup out of the bowl on the kitchen counter, and ignored the whoof Mo made, an alert too soft to pay any mind to and nearly collided with my dad when I opened the door.
“Whoa there,” he said, steadying me with a hand on my arm. “Where’s the fire?”
“No fire,” I said. “Just stepping out for a bit.”
He looked me over carefully, his eyes lingering on the bruises that were still doing their best to look dramatic.
“I was actually coming by to see how you were doing,” he said. “I haven’t had a chance yet to talk to you about yesterday.”
“I’m fine,” I assured him. “Stone and his team handled everything.”
Before he could say anything more, another familiar figure appeared in the doorway behind him.
Ian.
He still looked every bit the gunslinger he’d been portraying in the photo shoot—dark hat, boots, and the confident stride that went with the role.
“Am I interrupting something?” he asked.
“Just checking on my daughter,” my dad said.
Ian stepped inside and tipped his hat slightly. “Morning, Sheriff.”
“Morning.”
Ian looked at me. “I left early for the shoot this morning, but we’ve got a mid-morning break, so I thought I’d come home and have some tea with you.”
I smiled, knowing Ian well enough to know tea probably wasn’t the only thing he had in mind. With my father standing there, however, that possibility had just ridden off into the sunset.
“Peach iced tea?” I asked, looking between Ian and my dad.
They both nodded.
A few minutes later, my dad and I took seats at the kitchen island while Ian stood on the opposite side. Tall glasses of iced tea sat sweating gently on the countertop in front of us.
Once everyone had taken a sip, I leaned forward slightly.
“Dad, have you heard anything about what the two robbers had to say?”
He nodded. “Stone’s been good lately about sharing information with me. “The one robber who was caught yesterday, Steve Conners, told a story very similar to the one Todd Smith gave us.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Someone approached him in a bar.”
“That’s right,” my dad said. “Though this time it was the robber who took you hostage who did the approaching.”
Ian’s expression tightened slightly at that.
My dad continued, “This man, Lucas Mitchell, has a long rap sheet and was mad as a hornet’s nest when he was brought in. According to Stone, he kept insisting the job was supposed to be an easy in-and-out. Grab what he was paid to get, collect the rest of the promised money, then he planned to get a ticket to a faraway beach.”
“Sounds appealing,” I said.
“He claimed he got the offer through a text,” my dad said. “Said a friend recommended him for the job. But he never met the person who hired him. Everything after that was done through emails.”
“Convenient,” Ian said.
