Chapter 2 - THE DEED
The red and blue lights cut through the rain, painting the diner’s cheap vinyl booths in frantic, pulsing colors.
I didn’t move.
Dominic Vale didn’t move either. His nineteen men faded into the shadows of the kitchen hallway and the restrooms, becoming ghosts in wool coats.
Sheriff Grant Mercer didn’t knock. He kicked the front door open, letting the storm blow inside.
Mercer was a tall man who wore his uniform like it was a tailored suit. He had a smile that never quite reached his cold, pale eyes.
He walked to the counter, ignoring the puddles he tracked onto my clean linoleum. He ignored the smell of copper and sweat.
He dropped a soaked manila folder onto the pie case.
“Evening, Kaylee,” he said, his voice smooth as oil.
“It’s almost four in the morning, Grant. We’re closed.”
“Not to me.” Mercer tapped the folder. “I brought the paperwork.”
My stomach tightened. For six months, Mercer had been trying to force me out. First, it was surprise health inspections. Then, it was doubled property taxes. Now, it was this.
“I told you,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “The diner isn’t for sale.”
“And I told you,” Mercer replied, leaning over the counter, his badge catching the dim light, “you don’t have a choice anymore.”
He opened the folder. Inside was a quitclaim deed.
“Sign it,” he said.
“No.”
Mercer sighed, a mock display of disappointment. He casually unholstered his service pistol and laid it on the glass above the cherry pies.
“I see muddy footprints, Kaylee. I smell blood. I know you’ve got rats hiding in your walls.” Mercer leaned closer. “I can arrest you right now for harboring fugitives. I can call child services. Toby will be in a foster home by breakfast.”
My blood ran cold.
He didn’t care about the mafia men. He wasn’t here to arrest them. He was using them as leverage against me.
“You tracked them here?” I whispered.
“Tracked who?” Mercer smirked. “I came here tonight to finalize our real estate transaction. Whoever is bleeding in your kitchen is just a happy coincidence.”
A reversal. He wasn’t the law hunting the mob. He was a vulture hunting me, and he had just stumbled into a warzone.
“Sign the paper, Kaylee.”
Before I could reach for the pen, Mercer reached into his pocket to check the time.
He didn’t pull out a phone. He pulled out a heavy, gold pocket watch.
The diner lights caught the engraved initials on the casing. D.H.
Dean Harper.
My husband’s watch. The one his grandfather gave him. The one he supposedly took when he walked out on me four years ago.
May you like
“Where did you get that?” I asked, my voice dropping to a dangerous rasp.
Mercer smiled, snapping the watch shut. “Dean left a lot of things behind.”
