Page 21 of Stuck with my Mechanic Daddies

I shut off the water, toweled off, and threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater. My body might have still been buzzing from last night, but my brain needed to be somewhere else. The bookstore.

I grabbed my keys and headed out, ignoring the faint ache in my legs as I made my way down the quiet streets of Medford.

The morning air was crisp, the town just starting to wake up. A few cars rolled by, people walked in and out of The Brewed Bean Café, and for a second, everything felt normal.

Until I saw the bookstore.

My steps faltered, and my heart kicked against my ribs.

The door was ajar.

I know I locked it last night.

I rushed forward, pushing it open the rest of the way, and immediately, my stomach dropped. The place was a disaster.

Papers scattered across the floor. Shelves tipped over.

The register drawer yanked open, its contents dumped out.

A chill crept up my spine as I stepped inside, my boots crunching against broken glass.

What the hell?

I scanned the mess, trying to make sense of it. It wasn’t just a break-in. It was ransacked. Someone had been looking for something.

Swallowing hard, I crouched down, fingers sifting through the scattered papers.

Receipts. Old invoices. Some of my uncle’s handwritten notes about book orders. Nothing seemed valuable.

Until I saw the folder.

It was half-buried under a pile of loose pages, but the moment I picked it up, I knew something was off. The paper inside was yellowed, older than the other documents. I flipped it open and frowned.

Handwritten notes. My uncle’s handwriting, but strange. A list of names. Some underlined. Some crossed out. There were dates, too, but they didn’t seem to correspond to book orders.

A cold unease settled in my chest. Was this what they were looking for?

I heard the creak of the floorboards behind me, and my breath caught.

Not alone.

I spun around, my pulse hammering, but it was only the wind rattling through the broken window.

Okay. Get a grip.

I yanked my phone out of my pocket and dialed the local police station. It rang twice before a curt voice answered.

“Medford Police Department.”

“My bookstore was broken into,” I said, my fingers tightening around the folder I’d found among the mess. “Page Turners on Maple Avenue.”

There was a brief pause, then, “Stay put, ma’am. Officers are on their way.”

Within fifteen minutes, two officers arrived, introducing themselves as Officers Hall and Davis, their uniforms pressed and their demeanor all business. Their arrival didn’t go unnoticed; the usual morning crowd slowed down, curious glances cast in our direction.

These men carried weight in this town—that much was clear.

Hall stepped inside first. His sharp eyes scanned the chaos as Davis lingered near the door, his stance relaxed but his gaze keen.

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