Move the Sun (Signal Bend #1)(2)
She looked at him for several long moments, her eyes wide and frightened. Then she nodded and held out one small hand. He took it in his and pulled her into his arms. He gathered her up and carried her away from that godforsaken scene. He closed the bedroom door on his way out and took his daughter into the kitchen, turning lights on all the way.
It was just the two of them now.
CHAPTER ONE
Following the stilted British intonations of the GPS, Lilli turned off the interstate and made a left at the light at the bottom of the ramp. Another fifteen miles or so down a lazy, neglected stretch of macadam, nothing to either side of her but farmland, and she passed a wooden sign offering her a “Welcome to Signal Bend!” She figured the sign had once been quaint, brightly painted, with a vaguely Scandinavian aspect, but it had been some years since it seen any upkeep. The welcome it offered seemed weary.
She followed the GPS into Signal Bend, Missouri. The whole town seemed as weary as its welcome sign. Lilli supposed it was a typical Midwestern town, just far enough from the limits of a city to be rural, but just close enough that the suburban spans of superstores, megaplexes, and gallerias drained the life from the local economy. A geographical limbo that meant a long, slow, weary death for most towns.
She could see that it had once been bustling, and a few blocks of the main drag were making an attempt to capitalize on its quaint history, with antique shops, a couple of cafes, and an actual ice cream parlor lining the street on both sides. But there was a grimness under the pastel surface.
She pulled up in front of a small green bungalow with a large picture window dominating the front of the house. The door was mostly glass; a sign proclaiming “Come In, We’re OPEN!” hung from a suction cup in the middle. Painted in gilt on the picture window, the words “SIGNAL BEND REALTY, MAC
EVANS, BROKER” told Lilli she’d arrived at her destination before the GPS figured it out and announced the same. She turned off the portable unit and slid it into the pocket of her leather jacket.
As she closed the door on her black 1968 Camaro SS, she was startled by a thunderous roar of engines behind her. Three men on huge black Harleys turned the nearest corner and headed down the main drag— which was called, appropriately, Main Street. They wore basic black helmets, black sunglasses, and black leather kuttes. The rider in the lead—big and broad shouldered, with a dark full beard and a dark thick braid running down his back—noticed her ride, then noticed her, and nodded, giving the throttle a little goose, all in the span of time it took to roll past her.
Patches covering the backs of the three men’s kuttes declared that they were the Night Horde Motorcycle Club, of Missouri. Their emblem was the bust of a horse—probably a stallion—with a flaming mane. Lilli smirked. Subtlety did not tend to run deep in the MC world.
She turned back and headed into the realtor’s office.
The office was obviously a converted house, with the living room apparently serving as the reception and main work area. It still had the air of a home, with floral wallpaper and a dark green, sculpted carpet that had been around awhile. There was a small desk right inside the door; Lilli assumed it was for the receptionist, or the secretary, or the assistant, or whatever they called the likely underpaid, likely young woman who usually sat there. It was empty now. She didn’t see anyone, in fact. There were two other desks deeper in, but neither was occupied.
“Hello?” she called out.
From even deeper in, she heard a man’s voice call, “Yeah—one sec!”
In more like 60 seconds, the owner of the voice trundled into view. “Hi—Lillian, right? I’m Mac.” He held out his hand.
Lilli shook it. “It’s Lilli. Hi.”
She had never met Mac Evans in person, so she took him in now. He was average in almost every respect: say, mid-40s, about her height, so five-nine or so. Slightly balding, light brown hair, cut in a classic, conservative style that had been around since at least the middle part of the last century. Rimless glasses over brown eyes. Little beer gut forming. Wearing khaki Dockers and a pink oxford shirt. Lilli saw a navy blazer hanging on the back of the largest chair behind the largest desk in the room. The only feature by which Mac might leave any memorable impression at all on most observers was his nose—large, long, wide, and hooked, with nostrils probably an inch long. It drew one’s eye, to say the least.
“So, Lilli. Why don’t we sit. I’ve got a few papers for you to sign, and then I can hand over the keys to the rental. You’re sure you don’t want me to head over with you, do a walkthrough, make sure everything is as promised before you sign?”
She was sure. She was signing regardless, and she wanted to get the keys and get started. She sat in the chair facing his desk. “Nope, I’m good.” She smiled at him. “I trust you.”
He smiled back, charmed. Guys like Mac were easy to charm. “Well, that’s refreshing. The world needs a little more trust, if you ask me. And you won’t be sorry, I promise.” He passed the few papers she needed to sign to finalize her rental agreement, and, when she signed and passed them back, he handed her two keys on a ring with a glow-in-the-dark plastic fob. “The brass key is the house key, the silver the garage.”
Lilli took the keys and stood. Mac walked her to the door. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Actually, yes.” She smiled again. “I’d love a recommendation for a good place for breakfast. I didn’t even see a McDonald’s as I was coming into town.”