“You said you wrote it down, the address, when Jackal’s landlord gave it to you.”
Maren nods. “I did. In the ledger because I had no other paper around.”
“The ledger?” I ask.
She taps a thick annual planner on the desk. “I know it’s silly in this day and age, but I write down everything bought and sold, and who bought it, if I know. That way, I can look back at previous years’ inventories for planning. And I also get to track repeat customers.”
That’s even better than I thought. “What was the date he came in on? And who else was shopping at that time?”
She grabs the book and begins to flip back through the pages. “Pretty sure it was before Memorial weekend,” she mutters as she skims. “And I think I wrote it on the left-hand side.”
It’s clear this is an understood standard for the shop. Every day, in different styles of handwriting, is every order and booking. There are hand-drawn columns with the same headings:Bait Shop, Marine Supplies, Airboat Hire, Miscellaneous.
It’s meticulous and detailed. Lock would be impressed. He keeps the club’s two sets of books the same way.
Maren pauses her flip through, then tips her head in the direction of a small office. “Back there, there are fifty-one books just like this one. My grandfather used to keep them.”
My unease grows the closer she gets to the date she thinks the conversation happened. I’m hoping this detailed record will tell me who was in the store that day. But I’m also dreading finding out one of my men was here then.
“Got it,” Maren says, slapping the planner back down on the counter. I step around the back of it to stand next to her. It’s impossible to not feel the warmth of her, or smell the soft scent of her that reminds me of the soap we used in the shower.
But a man who made it known he wanted me, appreciated me, loved me, even? I’d beg him.
I want to be the man she’d beg.
I want to be the man who’d give her anything, if she’d ask. It’s slightly terrifying the way my feelings for this woman have done a complete one-eighty.
“Fair warning,” she says. “Leo’s handwriting needs some interpretation.”
“What does it say?”
She points to an address at the top of the page, out of the columns. Her hair slips forward over one shoulder, and she tucks it back behind her ear, revealing the expanse of smooth skin on her neck. “This is the address. And I know it was morning, because I was in the middle of trying to eat a breakfast sandwich I’d brought down from the apartment. I had grease on my fingers, so I had to wipe them before I could write this down. Didn’t do a good job, obviously.” She points to two grease smudges on the page.
“So, what’s the window of time?”
She shrugs, and glances up at a clock that hangs on the wall above the door as if it has the answers. “I open the shop at eight. If I was still eating my breakfast, I’d say it’s got to be within the first twenty minutes of opening because egg tastes gross cold.”
Her shoulder brushes against mine as I lean in to read. The contact shouldn’t have the ability to stop my train of thought,but it does. It throws me back to the shower. How it felt to run my fingers over the bare skin I know is beneath her simple pale blue polo shirt.
Forcing myself, I look back to the ledger. Her hand covers the rest of the names as she points to the first on the list. “The list is in time order, so I would imagine these transactions would be from around that time. We tend to be busiest in the morning when we first open. If it’s for a company, they likely need what they’re buying for the start of the day, and if people are going fishing, they’re keen to get out before it’s too hot.”
Then, she moves her hand down the list.
“Two pounds of shrimp for Jack D. He’s the caretaker of the school and that’s personal use. Jimmy is the owner of Scott Fisheries and needed some engine oil. This next one for hooks has avnext to it, which means a tourist in for the day. Then, Sunny was in for a box of frozen bait. I don’t remember if Ridge was with him, but the two of them usually call in on their way to fishing, so they were likely together. And this was an oil return. Pax Rucker, I’ve seen him around but can’t tell you where he lives or what he does. I remember, now, he was mad. Bottom line was he’d bought the wrong oil but couldn’t bring himself to admit it. Tried to tell me he’d pulled the container from the right spot on the shelf, but when he got home, it wasn’t what he wanted.”
A rush of adrenaline surges through me.
Gotcha, you son of a bitch.
She points up to a sign. “I wouldn’t care, but we have an ask-no-questions return policy. I didn’t need an essay from the guy.”
Maren turns, our faces so close, it would take nothing to lean just an inch and steal the kiss I’ve been thinking about.
“Do you think Sunny did it?” she asks. “Could he have overheard me and passed it along?”
I shake my head. “I trust Sunny with my life. Plus, he already knew where Jackal was. Jackal’s a well-respected nomad. At least, he was until he became Colorado’s enforcer. He wouldn’t have needed to overhear it from you. But this guy…”
I tap my finger over Pax’s name.
