On Her Side

And there was no win she wanted more than to see Dale York spend the rest of his life behind bars for her mother’s murder. But first, she had to find him.

“You want to talk,” Griffin said tightly. “You’ll have to do it while I work.” Then he turned and walked back into the garage.

The man put a new spin on the word stubborn.

Luckily so did she. And so far, she was ahead of the game since he’d stopped threatening to call the cops on her. Not that the police would really arrest her. But they would send someone out to check what was going on, which meant Layne would find out Nora was there.

And she wanted to keep that little tidbit of information to herself for…oh…forever. Or longer.

Inhaling deeply, she shook the glass fragments from her dress. Looked at her car once more. She winced. She’d only had it a few months. It’d been a gift—an extravagant, thoughtful gift—from her aunt and uncle upon her graduation from law school. Maybe her family was right. Maybe she was a bit impulsive from time to time.

But at least she got the job done. And that was all that mattered.

Not seeing Griffin in the garage, she headed toward the direction he’d come from when she’d first arrived. She found him in a cramped office searching through the piles of paper on a metal desk. She scratched her elbow. Great. She was probably breaking out in hives from this mess. How did he get any work done?

“Nice office,” she lied, crossing to check out a yellowed calendar on the wall. Pursing her lips, she studied the photo of a brunette with huge, curly hair, melon-size breasts and a teeny, tiny black bikini, sprawled across the hood of a white Lamborghini. “May 1987, huh? I take it a memorable event happened that month you like to be reminded of?”

He straightened, resentment and anger rolling off of him like waves crashing onto shore. “Knock it off.”

“Knock what off?” she asked with a smile as she tucked her hands behind her back. God only knew what sort of flesh-eating disease lingered on these surfaces.

He waved a hand in the air. “Your whole Little Miss Sunshine routine.”

“Routine?”

“Yeah, your act where you pretend there’s some sort of holy light shining down on your head while you shoot rainbows from your ass. Knock it off because I’m not buying it.”

Bristling, she ground her teeth together behind her grin. “It’s not an act. It’s called being pleasant. Friendly.”

He swept up a black bandana from the desk. “We’re not friends.”

“No kidding,” she muttered. Which was fine with her. She had more than enough friends already. She certainly didn’t need to add one bitter, antagonistic, angry, rude man to the list. And if he couldn’t be bothered with social niceties, then he could kiss her rainbow-shooting ass.

Jerk.

“Where’s your father?” she asked, no longer caring if she sounded haughty or demanding.

Setting his foot on the seat of the chair behind the desk, he laid the bandana on his jean-covered thigh and quickly folded it into a strip. “As I’ve already told Chief Taylor, and your sister, I have no idea.”

“You must have heard from him at some point during the past eighteen years.”

“Not even once.”

What could she say to that? They’d never heard from their mother and had never thought anything other than she hadn’t cared enough to contact them. Of course, now they knew she’d been dead all those years, but before the truth had come out, no one had questioned Valerie’s lack of communication with her family. Did Nora have any right to doubt Griffin now?

“Let’s back up a bit here,” she said, digging a small notebook out of her purse. She tucked it under her arm and searched for a pen. “We’ll start at the—”

“I’m not sure how much clearer I can be. I don’t know where he is.”

Damn it, why was it she could never find a pen when she needed one? Giving up she gingerly picked up a pen from his desk, held it between the tips of her fingers. “I believe you.”

He shook his hair back and put the bandana on, tied it behind his head. “You have no idea what that means to me.”

Not much if the sardonic lift of his mouth was anything to go by. So much for her thinking he’d be more receptive to helping her if he thought she was on his side.

“Whether or not you are aware of your father’s current whereabouts is irrelevant,” she said, “because I’ve hired a private investigator to track him down.” But instead of sounding certain and resolute, she came across as smug and, she hated to admit it, slightly obsessive.

“Industrious little thing, aren’t you?” he murmured. She didn’t take it as a compliment. “What does your family think of that?”

“They’re all for it.”

He set his hands on his hips, the faded material of his green T-shirt pulling tight across his muscular chest. “You’ll give lawyers a bad reputation lying that way, angel.”

Angel. Well, it was better than Nancy. Even if he did say angel the same way normal people said tapeworm. Still, the only reason he refused to call her by her given name was to prove he couldn’t be bothered to remember it.

That it bugged her was her own damn fault.

And what was up with him reading her so easily? How could he possibly know her family had no idea she’d hired a P.I. from Boston? Not that she planned on keeping that information from them indefinitely. She had every intention of telling them. After Dale was found and arrested for her mother’s murder.

“The more background information the P.I. has,” she said, ignoring her unease, her guilt at keeping a secret from her family, “the easier it will be for him to do his job.” Swinging her purse onto her shoulder, she took the notebook in one hand, held the pen poised over the paper. “Does your father have any living relatives? Anyone he may have sought out after leaving Mystic Point?”

The dark fabric of the bandana made his eyes seem lighter. Colder. “I get what you’re after, and I guess I can even understand where you’re coming from—”

“Hooray,” she said, her tone all sorts of wry.

“But I can’t help you.”

“You mean you won’t.”

He scratched under his jaw. “Either way, the end result’s the same.”

“If you’re uncomfortable discussing this with me, you can talk to the P.I. directly.” Her words were rushed. Desperate. “Just give him five, ten minutes of your time, answer a few quick—”

“No.”

She shook her head. “But you can help us. It’s the right thing to do.”

And that meant everything to her. Doing what was right. What was best for others.

It was one of the many things that proved she was the exact opposite of her mother.

“I’m not interested in doing what’s right,” he said so simply, she had no choice but to believe him. To resent him for it.

“If you won’t help, maybe your mother would be willing to give me some answers.”

He edged closer to her, his expression hard, his eyes glittering. Wishing she still had the crowbar—just in case—she stepped back, held the notebook over her furiously pounding heart. “You stay away from my mother.”

She didn’t mistake his quiet words for a request or even an order. They were a warning, a challenge as subtle and soft as the summer breeze.