Touch of Red (Tracers #12)(39)

He knew.

It probably hadn’t taken much for him to find out who her ex was. It wasn’t like it was a secret or anything—she’d just never mentioned his name in front of Sean.

Oh, well. She’d known Sean would find out sooner or later. The man was a detective. There was probably very little she could hide from him if he was determined to look. And he’d definitely seemed determined lately. About a lot of things.

“Ma’am?”

“Sorry.” She stepped up to the register. “Um . . . I’ll have a chicken-strip basket with onion rings.”

I’ll call you later. Did that mean tonight? Would he ask her out again? Or maybe he’d show up on her doorstep with that sexy smile and invite her out for “just beers” again?

“Wait. Change that. Make it fries instead of onion rings.”

Just in case.

The woman rang her up, and Brooke glanced to her side, where a young boy stood at the neighboring register. The sight of his rust-colored hair made Brooke’s pulse skip. It skipped again as he dumped a pile of coins on the counter and slid them, one by one, toward the cashier.

“You’re fifty-nine cents short,” the cashier told him.

The kid dug into his pocket and came up with another quarter, which earned him an eye roll.

“Thirty-four cents short.”

Brooke stepped over with a twenty-dollar bill. “Here, let me.”





CHAPTER 12


The boy had a buzz cut and freckles, and Brooke estimated his age at ten, maximum, because of his small stature. Despite his youthful appearance, he had a streetwise way about him as he glanced at Brooke and exited the restaurant. He stopped at a picnic table, where a little white dog waited, tail thumping, at the end of a leash.

Brooke paused beside the table.

“Thanks for the money.” He darted a suspicious look at her as he sat down and unpacked his food.

“No problem.” She glanced around. “They’re pretty crowded. Mind if I share your table?”

He gave a shrug and unwrapped his burger. He’d ordered two plain cheeseburgers. The first one went beneath the table, where the little dog quickly devoured it.

Brooke sat on the bench across from them.

“Cute pup. What’s his name?”

“Fenway.”

She smiled. “Like the park.”

He nodded and slurped his soft drink, watching her.

“I’m Brooke.”

“I’m Cameron.”

“Nice to meet you, Cameron. Where’d you get all the quarters?”

“Around.” He popped a fry into his mouth, then leaned down and gave one to Fenway.

Brooke opened up her food, although she felt too wired to eat. Her heart was racing as she sat across the table from this kid who had been a faceless figment of her imagination up to now.

“It’s not really that hard.” He popped another fry into his mouth. “I mean, you have to know where to look, but I do, so . . .”

She sipped her drink and watched him. “So . . . it’s like a hobby? Hunting for loose change?”

He nodded.

“Sounds lucrative.”

“Vending machines. That’s where you go. There’s a lot around town. You ever been to Wash-o-rama?”

“Over on Main Street?”

“Yeah.”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“That’s the best place. It’s my first stop. Then the car-wash place, the library, then Holiday House. Then the arcade at the truck stop, but only if I have time. Sometimes it’s a waste. I think someone who works there checks the machines.”

“Wow, that’s a lot of stops.”

He shrugged. “Not really. I mean, not if it’s a weekend.”

“The motel is on the interstate. Your parents let you go all the way over there by yourself?”

“It’s just my mom. And she doesn’t care. As long as I stay out of trouble while she’s gone.”

Brooke picked at her chicken. “Gone, like at work?”

“Yeah.” He dipped a fry in ketchup and handed it down to Fenway.

“Where does she work?”

His gaze narrowed. “Why?”

“Just curious.”

“This coffee place. Not Starbucks or anything, but it’s pretty good. It’s over on Elm Street.”

“Java House?”

“You know it?”

“Yeah.” She watched him and forced herself to nibble a french fry. “So . . . you drink coffee?”

“No, but if I go there after school, they always give me free hot chocolate.”

Brooke wished she could think of what to say to this kid. She wanted to know his full name and his address. And she wanted to talk to his mother immediately and tell her that her son was mixed up in something dangerous. But she couldn’t just sit here and interrogate a minor without a parent present. Plus, if her hunch was right, he’d get spooked in no time and she might never see him again.

She searched his face and his hands, looking for any hint that he’d been injured recently in a bike crash. His gaze stayed on her as he chomped his burger.

“Does Fenway like chicken?”

“He likes anything.”