Page 20 of Red Hot Roaster

I may have been reading into it more than I should, but it sounded like the word “finally” was implied.

But Rose jumped in before I could say anything. “No, no, Officer Brennan, this is Rafe Amato. He’s the coffee roaster here. He was coming in early to work. He lives across town.”

Brennan smiled again, noting my arm still around Rose, and moved on to share, “I wish I had better news for you, Ms. Connolly. It’s unlikely that we’ll catch these guys. They smash windows, maybe spray graffiti, then take off. No fingerprints. Even if there are cameras, no dice. They usually wear beanies and masks.”

I butted in there. “Is this common in these neighborhoods now? Do they ever do more than break windows?”

“Nah, it’s usually the thrill of vandalizing. However, in one or two recent cases, they moved further into the premises, looking for cash or valuables. So, Ms. Connolly,” he said as he looked Rose square in the eye, “please, in the future, should this happen again,waitfor the police.”

I kept my mouth shut this time. Rose nodded, asked for a police report for her insurance and thanked Brennan. He left through the front door.

Right on cue, Mateo opened the side door with his key, walked in and said, “Princess is going crazy in the pickup, and I can hear Pirate barking up a storm at Rose’s. What going on?”

He stopped when he saw us. “What the fuck?” He had the morning shift this week, with Rose taking the afternoons. We hadn’t thought to call him in all the chaos.

Mateo rushed over at the same time that Rose and I both yelled, “Watch the glass, watch the glass!”

He put the brakes on. When he saw Rose’s bandages, he let loose with a soft string of Spanish swear words—some even I couldn’t make out.

“Rosita, are you okay? What happened?”

By this time, Rose was fading—and fast. I needed to get her home and give her some pain meds so she could nap.

I raised my eyebrows at Mateo, and he immediately got my message.

Rose launched into an explanation of what happened and what we should do next. I pressed my fingers against her lips and said softly, yet sternly, “Rose. Shut it.”

She stopped and narrowed her eyes.

Before she could start up again, I informed her, “Mateo and I have got this covered. Right now, I’m going to carry you home so you don’t slip in those stupid slippers.”

I reached down, put an arm under her knees and tightened my arm around her shoulders. I’d never let go from earlier. Picking her up, I cradled her in front of me like a hurt dog, like a tired child. Or like a bride.

“Once we get you settled on your couch or bed with some pain meds, I’ll deal with the dogs. Then I’ll come back and work on things with Mateo.”

At this point, Rose was staring at me like I’d lost my mind. Maybe I had, starting when I’d clocked her white face and bloody red knees.

“Please, please, Rose, let me help.” I wasn’t afraid to beg.

She nodded slowly and rested her head against my shoulder.

I nearly spoiled it all by saying, “Princess and I are gonna get our stuff from Pete’s and move into your garage apartment tonight.”

Chapter 12

Rose

“Jen, this is blackmail. Don’t pretend otherwise!”

I glared at her—and her partner-in-crime, Mica—from my “jailhouse” on the couch. Granted, it was a pretty cushy jailhouse, with pillows plumped behind my back and Grandma’s quilt tucked carefully around my bandaged legs. My e-reader sat close at hand on the coffee table, along with my phone, the remote control, a glass of water, chocolate bars from the café and a box of tissues. Princess was curled up at (or on) my feet, and Pirate lay on the floor, wedged between the couch and the table.

But still, a jailhouse. Just with benefits.

Rafe was no help. In fact, he was part of the problem. He leaned against the doorframe to the dining room, arms crossed with flexed biceps stretching his T-shirt’s sleeves. He watched me impassively while Jen worked her blackmail magic.

“Rose,” Jen said patiently, with a sprinkle of mom-splaining, “you know you can’t wait any longer to call Finn and let him know what happened.”

I nodded, grudgingly. I’d slept for hours, and it was late afternoon now. While I’d tinkered with the idea ofnottelling my son, a little voice that sounded suspiciously like Mom’s whisperedthat’s not fair, sweetie, that’s not right.

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