Gypsy King (Tin Gypsy, #1)(60)

It didn’t make sense. It felt like giving up.

I hadn’t written anything about her murder or the Tin Gypsies in the past two weeks. My stories had been focused on summer activities around town, particularly the upcoming Independence Day parade and the holiday’s various celebrations.

Because I wasn’t sure what to write yet. Without new information on Amina’s murder case or knowing when Draven would be brought to trial, there was nothing to print. And I wasn’t ready to write a story on the former Tin Gypsy MC.

The information Dash had told me on the record would suffice for an easy Sunday feature. A popular one too. But for me, that story was dull. Lifeless. The good stuff was all the things he’d told me off the record. Since he’d kept his end of the bargain not to hide things from me, I’d be keeping mine too.

Or had he?

The meeting at the garage played over and over in my mind. Draven’s insistence we not talk to the daughter had been nagging at me. I didn’t know the man from Adam, but he’d been so firm.

Was he always like that? Was he just trying to intimidate me? I believed his threat, more so than I’d believed any Dash had given me. If I went to Amina’s daughter, he’d retaliate. He might even cause me physical harm.

And that was why I had to go.

Draven’s insistence was more than sparing the feelings of a grieving child. He was hiding something. Was I the only one who saw it?

Either Dash didn’t care, blinded by his loyalty to his father, or Dash knew Draven’s secret and was lying to me—which meant my story would include every word he’d spoken about the Gypsies.

I’d been waiting to see if something came up—it wouldn’t. Murderers with a lick of sense didn’t go around talking about said murder. They certainly didn’t brag about framing a notorious criminal. And Amina’s murderer was smarter than your average gummy bear.

Screw Draven’s threat. And screw Dash for making me miss him. Besides, Draven would never know I was leaving. Not unless he was following me too.

Picking up my phone, I opened my United Airlines app and checked into my flight leaving tomorrow morning for Denver.

Then I flipped open the yellow notepad sitting next to me, reading Genevieve Daylee’s address for the hundredth time.





“Thanks,” I said to my Uber driver as I got out of the car.

The late-morning air was fresh and warm in Colorado. The sunshine beat down bright. I’d gotten up long before dawn to drive to Bozeman and catch my flight, watching the sun rise from my tiny window on the airplane. Then I’d ordered a ride to Genevieve’s.

The condos on this street were all the same, a row of tan siding with white grid windows. Genevieve had a planter full of purple and pink petunias by her door, brightening up her stoop.

I took a deep breath, pinned my shoulders back and walked up the sidewalk. After a sure knock, I waited.

Maybe I should have called first, but not wanting to raise any questions or have word get back to Draven that I’d contacted her, I’d risked a surprise visit. It was a gamble that she’d even be home, but it was a Saturday and hopefully I’d get lucky. If not, my return flight would be delayed until I could find some time to see her.

Light footsteps, a quick flip of the lock and the door opened.

“Hello.” She smiled.

“H-hi.” I did a double take. She looked so much like Amina. Familiar, but there was something else there too. Something I couldn’t put my finger on.

Her hair was dark and long, curled into thick spirals. Her face was heart shaped with flawless skin. Her eyes were a deep brown that I was sure I’d seen somewhere before. And she had her mother’s chin and mouth.

“Can I help you?”

I snapped myself out of my stupor, smiling and holding out my hand. “Hi. I’m Bryce Ryan. Are you Genevieve Daylee?”

“Yes.” She hesitantly took my hand. “Do I know you?”

“No. We’ve never met. I’m a reporter from the Clifton Forge Tribune.”

“Oh.” She inched away, lifting a hand to the door.

“I was hoping you might be willing to help me,” I said before she could shut me out. “I’m writing a special piece on your mom. A story to show who she was and what her life was like before.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because her death was awful and tragic. Because people killed in that way are so often remembered for the way they died, not the way they lived.”

Genevieve let my words linger. I was sure she’d slam the door in my face, but then the hesitancy in her face vanished and she opened it wider. “Come on in.”

“Thank you.” I stepped in behind her, letting out the breath I’d been holding. When I inhaled, the scent of chocolate and brown sugar filled my nose. My stomach growled, starved from only eating the small bag of airplane pretzels. “It smells incredible in here.”

“I made chocolate chip cookies. Mom’s recipe. I was missing her today.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

She gave me a sad smile, leading me through the clean and cozy living room and into the breakfast nook off the kitchen. “Some days it doesn’t feel like it’s real. That I’ll call her and she’ll pick up the phone.”

“Were you close?” I asked as she waved me into a chair.