Page 19 of All the Missing Pieces

“Breakfast burrito and nectar of the gods,” Ezra said as he slid the plate and coffee onto the table.

“Thank you so much.” I took a small sip of the coffee. “Damn,nectar of the godsis right.”

He chuckled. “Decades of slinging coffee, and I’ve finally got it down.”

It was the perfect opening. That faint buzz lit in my muscles. The kind that always took root when I was starting a case. The type of buzz that reminded me anything could happen. That I might be the one to break a case wide-open. Only this time it was more.

“How long have you owned Cowboy Coffee?” I asked, leaning back in my chair.

Ezra scrubbed a hand over his cheek, the barest hints of reddish scruff there. “Over fifteen years now. Worked here for a decade before I bought it.”

I let out a low whistle. “Coffee’s in your blood by now.”

“It’s definitely baked into me. I still smell it every night when I get home.”

I grinned. “There are a lot worse smells you could carry with you.”

His mouth curved in answer. “True.”

“Can I ask you a question?” That buzz intensified, making my muscles almost vibrate. It was like that feeling of being at the top of a roller coaster, knowing you were about to fall.

Ezra’s expression grew puzzled. “Sure.”

“Did you know Emerson Sinclair?”

I watched as his body language changed, could see as the wave of tension washed over him. Ezra’s jaw tightened and his eyes went hard. The jolly coffee enthusiast was gone, and I knew I’d made a miscalculation on whom to approach first.

Shit.

7

RIDLEY

Ezra staredat me for a long moment before saying a word, and all I could do was wait. Wait and see just how bad his reaction might be. He could ban me from the establishment, which would be a blow on multiple fronts. He could cuss me out right here. I didn’t read violence in him, but I could be wrong there too.

But I’d seen it all before. Faced it all. I could handle myself whatever came my way.

“What do you want with Em?” Ezra’s voice pitched low, not aggressive exactly, but it held a hint of warning.

I looked him dead in the eyes, hoping he would see the honesty in mine. “I want to find the bastard who kidnapped her.”

Those brown irises flashed in surprise. “You a PI or something?”

“Or something.”

“She’s the host of one of the biggest true-crime podcasts out there,” a voice said as the chair opposite me was scraped back. A gangly teen boy with raven-dark hair and a lip ring sat without invitation, his black clothing completing his goth demeanor. “She’s solved three cases completely on her own and found new leads on almost a dozen others.”

Ezra’s gaze moved back and forth between the teen and me. “He right?”

I fought the urge to squirm in my chair. “Not theon my ownpart. I’m only successful with the help of the communities I come into.”

That gaze narrowed. “I don’t talk about anything without Em’s permission.”

Curiosity sparked to life. His response seemed too vehement for casual work colleagues. It was possible he was simply protective due to all the media attention on Emerson in the wake of the abduction. Small communities could be insular and their inhabitants bulldogs in the way they tried to protect each other.

“I’d never force someone to talk to me. Victim or otherwise.” That was true. If a family or the victim didn’t want to speak to me, I gave them a wide berth. I understood the pain that came with digging up trauma. How the rehashing of it could be like carving open a wound that had scabbed over.

But I also knew that sometimes reopening that wound was exactly what was needed to bring complete healing. I just hoped one day I could find it for myself too.

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