Gypsy King (Tin Gypsy, #1)(11)

“What’d you find out?” I asked.

“I called the salon.” Her face paled. “Stacy said she saw a bunch of cop cars at the motel on her way into work this morning. There’s a rumor that a woman was found dead, but she’s not sure if it’s true.”

Goddamn it. It was probably true. “Anything else?”

She shook her head. “That’s it.”

What I needed was to talk to Dad, but given Marcus’s attitude, that wasn’t happening. So for the time being, I’d have to funnel information through the lawyer.

The door to the office opened and Emmett walked inside, followed by Leo.

“Heard I missed some stuff this morning,” Leo joked.

Not in the mood for it, I shot him a scowl that wiped the grin off his face. “Where the fuck were you?”

“Overslept.”

“That’s been happening a lot lately.”

He ran a hand through his messy blond hair, the strands still wet from his shower. “Am I not getting my work done?”

I didn’t answer. Leo was the artist in the bunch, doing all the paint and design while Emmett, Isaiah and I preferred the mechanics and fabrication. His work was getting done, but he’d been drinking a lot more lately. His arrival time in the morning getting later and later. Every night he seemed to have a new woman in his bed.

He was still acting like the club’s playboy.

“I think we’ve got more important things to worry about at the moment than Leo’s degrading work quality, don’t you?” Emmett asked, taking the chair next to me.

“Degrading work quality,” Leo mumbled, shaking his head as he sat in the last open chair. “Assholes. I hate you all.”

“Gentlemen, do me a favor,” Presley interjected. “Shut. Up.”

“What’s the plan, Dash?” Emmett leaned his elbows on his knees.

I ran a hand over my jaw. “We need to find out whatever we can about the murder. Dad will stay quiet so the cops aren’t going to get anything from him. But they have something. Need to find out what it is. Isaiah has the garage covered, but Pres, limit jobs so he doesn’t get swamped. Emmett and Leo, start asking around.”

They both nodded. We might not be a club anymore but we had connections.

“What are you going to do?” Presley asked.

Emmett and Leo didn’t need my help, and unless the work in the garage was too much, I’d let Isaiah and Presley handle it. Because there was another person in town who had information, and she’d either give it up freely or I’d drag it out of her.

“Research.”





Chapter Four





Bryce





“I love Sundays.” I smiled at the newspaper on my desk. The bold headline wasn’t fancy or flowery, but it sure grabbed your attention.

WOMAN MURDERED. SUSPECT ARRESTED.

We ran an eight-page newspaper that went out twice a week on Wednesdays and Sundays. When Dad had bought the paper, he’d kept the publication days the same but had drawn a clear line between the Wednesday and Sunday editions. Wednesday was geared toward business, focused on the activities happening around town, the classifieds and announcements.

Sunday’s paper had the good stuff. We ran the major headlines on Sunday, giving the townsfolk something to talk about after church. If there was a major story in town, it came on Sunday. Whenever we did a feature or multiweek piece, it was on Sunday.

I lived for the Sunday paper. And this week’s was definitely going to cause a stir.

The ads George had been working on for page three and Sue’s column on the new wedding venue outside of town would likely go unnoticed behind my article.

Murder had a way of grabbing attention.

Small-town gossip traveled fast and I had no doubt that most people in and around Clifton Forge already knew about the murder. But gossip was just that, speculation and rumor, until it was printed in my newspaper. Then, it became fact.

After leaving the Clifton Forge Garage—and one pissed-off biker—behind on Friday, I’d come to the paper and immediately begun writing.

As stories go, this one didn’t have a lot of detail. Chief Wagner was keeping tight-lipped about the murder as well as the victim. Before they released her name, they were tracking down next of kin.

The only details he’d divulged in his press sheet were that a woman had been murdered at the Evergreen Motel and they had a suspect in custody. Lucky for me, I knew who the suspect was and had been able to add it to my report.

Along with my well-timed photo.

Draven Slater’s name was splashed across the Tribune’s front page, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. I was going to report this story from beginning to end—the judge’s gavel slamming on a wooden block as he sentenced a murderer to life in prison.

I was taking a risk that I knew the end of my story already. Journalists typically didn’t assume the primary suspect was guilty, and normally, I prided myself on keeping an open mind. But my gut screamed that Draven was a criminal and while he’d been able to escape incarceration for his previous arrests, I doubted he’d be able to slip free this time.

Reporting and writing this story could be the mark I made on this town. It could establish my career here. My name. And it could be the story that filled the hole in my life.