Page 1 of Dragonfly

PROLOGUE

GEORGIA

FIVE YEARS EARLIER

The bell over my shop’s door tinkled, and my life as I knew it was over.

In Springfield, whether you live in the seedier parts of the city or the more suburban areas along the outer edge, you learn to be wary of a man in a suit—and not for the reason you might think. It’s been a crime hotspot my entire life, and even if you do your best to avoid the gangs, the local mafias, the organized syndicates that rule the entire city, sometimes they find you.

These two don’t give off the vibe that they’re criminals. Still, something about the way they move single-file down one of the narrow aisles that separates the cashwrap from the entrance has my greeting catching in my throat.

The one in front is a couple of inches taller than the other, and quite a few pounds heavier. He’s light on his feet, though, and when he heads straight for me instead of looking around the store, any hope that he stopped by for a test booster or maybe a weight loss supplement dies a quick death.

Two years in business has trained me to offer any customer who walks into Healthy Habits by Georgia a customer service grin. Even if I stumble over my “what brings you in today” spiel, I can at least smile at him.

He doesn’t smile back. Instead, pulling out a black wallet, flashing me a Springfield Police Department badge, he asks, “Miss Georgia Gayle?”

My heart just about stops beating.

Well, I wasn’t wrong, was I? Cops. I’ve got cops in my store. Detectives from the look of the suits, and they want me.

I’m not a fan of the police. Law enforcement makes me uncomfortable. With all the news stories about cops being just as bad as the gangsters that run Springfield—and about how crooked the SPD is in particular—whenever I see a uniform or a badge, I start convincing myself that I committed a shit ton of crimes and just conveniently forgot about them.

Why else would a pair of DTs be looking for me?

I could lie. I could pretend that—despite the name on my sign—there’s no Georgia here. Maybe I’d be better off acting like she’s my boss and I’m some poor sales clerk who has no way of getting in contact with her.

I don’t do any of that. Deep down, I’m a goody-goody. It’s not that I want to help the SPD, but I hate getting into trouble. It goes back to being an anxious mess of an only child with a narc mother and a workaholic father who was rarely home, who was born with this pathologic need not to piss people off.

You’d think that, at twenty-five and finally living happily on my own, I’d have gotten over that by now. Considering I gulp, struggling to keep my nervous smile in place as I nod, you’d be wrong.

“Hi. Yes. I’m Georgia. Can I help you?”

The taller detective glances at his partner. The second suit has straw-colored hair, mud-brown eyes, and a flat expression that only ramps up my anxiety.

Without a word, he reaches inside of his suit jacket. Pulling out a thick envelope, he passes it over to the taller—lead?—detective.

The taller detective has thinning brown hair, a dent in his chin, and a small grin that might pass for friendly if he hadn’t already stoically flashed his badge before. Rifling through the envelope in his hand, he pulls out a thin rectangular-shaped sheaf of paper.

“Yes, miss, you can. My name is Detective Chestnut. This is Detective Lewis. We have a couple of questions for you. First, tell me… do you recognize this?”

He places it on my countertop, using his pointer finger to position it in front of me.

“Um. Yeah. This is one of my deposit slips.”

“That’s your signature, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And this”—he turns the slip over—“you filled this out yourself?”

Chestnut taps the lines on the back of the deposit where I usually mark how many coins, how many singles, how many fives, tens, twenties, fifties, and hundreds I’d put into the deposit bag before I dropped it off inside of the Springfield Bank depository after closing.

I might own and run this business by myself, but I do my banking through the branch about two blocks away. All of the daily deposits go there, and I get any change I need for the drawer from one of the tellers.

“Yes. I’m the only employee here. I do everything myself.”

The shorter detective—Lewis—nods as if that was all he needed to hear. Leaving the other cop at my cashwrap, he slips away.

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