“Flowers. If you came all the way out here to ask if there’s a problem, I’ll just tell you no. There’s no problem here.”
“Then I’ve got a follow-up. Why are you carrying a gun?”
She knew the instant of surprise must have shown, and wished for her sunglasses. “I live alone. I don’t know you, and you came uninvited, so I have a gun and the dog for protection. I have a license.”
“It’s good you do. The thing is, you were wearing that gun when you went in to buy fancy vinegar. I don’t think you needed protection in the gourmet market.”
Sharp and observant, she thought again, and berated herself for not taking a smaller weapon. “I have a concealed-carry license. I’m within my rights.”
“I’m going to ask to see your license, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind. Why do people say that when they know very well the person they say it to minds?”
“Empty manners, I guess.” He spoke pleasantly, patiently—she thought of the ability as a talent, and a weapon.
“I do want to see the license, just to cover things—Abigail, isn’t it?”
She turned without a word, took out her keys. She felt him follow her onto the porch. “I’ll bring it out.”
“You know, you’re making me wonder why you’re so hell-bent on keeping me out of the house. You running a meth lab, a bordello, running guns, making explosives?”
“I’m doing nothing of the sort.” Her hair, a blunt,shoulder-skimming drape of golden brown, swung out as she turned. “I don’tknowyou.”
“Brooks Gleason, chief of police.”
Yes, she decided, anyone who could deliver sarcasm with such a pleasant drawl, such an easygoing smile, had skills.
“Your name and occupation don’t change the fact that I don’t know you.”
“Point taken. But you’ve got a big-ass dog there who’s giving me the stink eye because he knows you’re upset and I’m the reason. He must go a hundred and twenty pounds.”
“One thirty-three.”
Brooks gave Bert a long study. “I’ve got about thirty pounds on him, but he’s got sharper teeth and you’ve got a sidearm.”
“So do you.” She shoved the door open, and when Brooks stepped inside, she held up a hand. “I want you to wait here. I’m going to put him on guard. He’ll restrain you if you don’t stay here. You have no right to wander around my house.”
“All right.”
“Bert. Hold.” She turned to the stairs, started up.
“Define ‘restrain.’ ”
Nearly out of patience—the police chief appeared to have more than his share—she paused, snapped, “Stay where you are and you won’t have to find out.”
“Okay, then.” He let out a breath as she disappeared up the stairs. He and the dog eyed each other. “So, Bert, what do you do around here for fun? Not talking, huh? Nice place.” Cautious, Brooks stood very still, turned only his head. “No muss, no fuss.”
And triple locks, a riot bar, secured windows, top-grade alarm system.
Who the hell was Abigail Lowery, and what—or whom—was she afraid of?
She came back down, a document in hand, gave it to him.
“A Glock 19? That’s a serious gun.”
“All guns are serious.”
“You’re not wrong.” He handed the license back to her, looked into her eyes. “And you’re not wrong that you don’tknow me. I can give you the name of my former captain in Little Rock. I was on the police force there for ten years before I moved back home. I’m a good cop, Abigail. If you tell me what kind of trouble you’re in, I’ll try to help you.”
