Anarchy Found (SuperAlpha, #1)(21)

I huff out a breath. “Well, no offense taken. I do my best to be as ordinary as possible. I’m afraid it suits me.”

“All pretenses. No ordinary woman wears saddle shoes.” He chuckles on the other end of the line. “It says fearless nine-year-old. But in all the right ways.”

I burst out laughing. “Jesus, Atticus. You have a way with words. I’m not sure how to take that, but—”

“Some children just naturally feel invincible and immortal. Like the world is at their beck and call. Like it owes them nothing but a challenge and no wall is too high, no obstacle too large, and no enemy too close.”

I stand there in silence for a moment, thinking about how right he is. Or was. “Well,” I say after several long seconds. “I might’ve been that way once. But today, they’re just comfortable shoes.”

“Hmm,” he says thoughtfully. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that. And even though you’re working, I’m sure you’ll be able to spare a moment to say hello when I seek you out. Have a nice morning, Miss Masters.”

The line goes dead.

I press the end tab just to make sure the call disconnected and slump down in a chair near the front window as I think about what he said. He’s been checking up on me, obviously. And why not? I’m the detective in charge of a major case that involves his billion-dollar business. It’s only logical that he went looking.

But I respect the fact that he didn’t bring it up. Not directly. And that he could read so much into my scant history available online. I was a fearless nine-year-old. And that lasted through ten, eleven, twelve. All the way up to sixteen.

But sixteen… I look down at my saddle shoes. The two-tone brown leather is scuffed and the soles are worn down just right. I wear them every day without fail. They remind me of happier times. Back when motorcycles were fun and I was fearless. Back when my family was whole and even though the people who raised me were transient—we moved from town to town and only stopped when we had to—their love was limitless. Back when living meant something more than military duty or solving crimes.

I kick my shoes off and pick them up, then take them into my bedroom and throw them in the closet. I don’t like people to see through me like that. And it’s not that I think Montgomery is being mean or facetious. I think he is genuinely interested in figuring me out. But I don’t want to be figured out. And I certainly don’t want to walk around with clues on my feet.

A chime announces an incoming text, so I walk out of my room to get my phone. It’s the chief. You better be on time today.

Well, duty calls. One more day and then some downtime this weekend. I really do need to get rid of Will’s bikes. I hate seeing that trailer every time I have to take the garbage out. This weekend I’ll—

“I’ll what?” I say out loud. The thought was there and then it wasn’t. It feels like a hole in my memory. “What did I do last Saturday? I got the bikes. I drove…”

And this is where it gets fuzzy. I drove home, obviously. But I don’t remember any of it.

“I drove—”

But another text from the chief comes in and jars me back to the present. Acknowledge me when I message you, Masters!

I text back, Leaving now. There’s no time to start wondering what I might’ve done last weekend.

I check the ammo in my gun, holster it under my arm, slip my feet into some hideous loafers in the coat closet, grab my jacket and purse and walk out the door.

They had a saying about me back when I was a fearless nine-year-old. Everyone from my father to the ringmaster used to sing it in my ear whenever I’d get lost in a daydream about life outside the business.

If wishes were horses, they’d say.

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

If turnips were watches, I’d wear one by my side.

If ‘ifs’ and ‘ands’ were pots and pans, there’d be no work for tinkers’ hands.

That was the song, anyway. But that’s not what they’d say.

If wishes were horses, you’d ride forever.

But they were wrong. Wishes were motorcycles.

I left the business behind years ago and all my dreams went with it.





Chapter Thirteen - Molly




Cathedral Thirteen is on the far east side of town and when you stand on the top step, just in front of the grand arched double doors, the view of the mountains is magnificent. I know. I’m standing there now and I’ve got horses, and wishes, and motorcycles on my mind.

“Detective Masters?” A gruff voice pulls me out of the daydream and a tall, dark man ascends the steps two at a time like he’s late.

Which he is. Four minutes. I’m typically punctual when I’m not waking up drunk with a head filled with questions, but I’m not a stickler over four minutes. He extends his hand to me and a ring gleams with a bright red stone set in what is most surely platinum on his ring finger. It’s his right hand, so not a wedding ring.

Don’t judge me, he’s very attractive.

“I apologize,” he says, grasping my hand firmly and giving it a gentle squeeze. Handshakes intrigue me. Mostly because I like to compare them. And the gentle squeeze from Thomas Brooks comes off as seductive. “The complexities of this day are almost beyond description.”