Page 151 of Lost Then Found
Miller shrugs. “Then we make her.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You really gotta stop saying things that sound borderline illegal.”
She grins. “Borderline illegal is my specialty.”
I mutter a curse and glance at the house again. “Maybe let me take the lead on this one. You’re kind of—”
“If you say ‘intimidating,’ I will hit you with my purse.”
I smirk. “I was gonna say ‘terrifying,’ but sure, let’s go with intimidating.”
Miller scowls and starts up the porch steps. “Try to keep up, cowboy.”
I sigh and follow, wondering what the hell I’ve signed up for.
The porch creaks beneath our steps, the wood worn and weathered. It’s been repainted too many times instead of being replaced. There’s a potted plant by the railing—half-dead, the soil cracked and dry. The mailbox leans slightly to the right, its rusted hinges barely hanging on.
Small details, easy to overlook. But my brain catalogs them automatically, old habits from years of assessing unfamiliar places kicking in. No car in the driveway. No lights on inside except for a single lamp by the window. No security cameras that I can see.
Miller stops at the door, knocking twice. Sharp, precise. The knock of someone who doesn’t expect to be ignored.
I take a step back, letting her take the lead while I keep my eyes on the street. A car rolls by slow, too slow, before speeding up at the corner. I glance at the neighbors’ houses—curtains twitching, someone watching from a second-story window.
Something about all of it doesn’t sit right.
A lock clicks, then the door cracks open just enough for me to see a pair of dark eyes.
Rose Weaver is older than I expected—mid-fifties, maybe early sixties. Lines around her mouth like she’s spent a lot of her life frowning with short, wiry gray hair, and a frame so thin it looks like the wind could knock her over. She’s in an oversized cardigan and a faded t-shirt, one slipper-clad foot peeking out from behind the door.
Her gaze sweeps over me first, instinctively wary of the large man standing on her porch in dirty cowboy boots and a baseball cap. Then she shifts to Miller, her eyes narrowing. “Can I help you?”
I don’t miss how her free hand grips the doorframe like she’s already decided she might have to slam it shut. Or how her gaze flicks over our shoulders, checking the street the same way I did.
Miller doesn’t hesitate. “Ms. Weaver? I’m Miller Ashford, and this is Boone Wilding. We were hoping to ask you a couple of questions about your job with the county health department.”
Rose’s grip tightens on the door. “I don’t work for them anymore.”
“I know.” Miller’s voice is smooth. “But we were hoping you could help clarify something about a recent inspection for The Bluebell Diner.”
Her shoulders stiffen. “I don’t know anything about that.”
Miller tilts her head slightly, studying her. “That’s interesting, because it was your name listed on the initial report for the Bluebell Diner. Youinspected it a few weeks ago. We just have a couple of questions, and then we’ll be out of your hair.”
Rose’s mouth presses into a thin line. “Like I said, I don’t know anything about it.”
I catch the way her fingers twitch, the slightest tremor in her hand.
Miller sighs, as if she’s done with this conversation already. “Ms. Weaver, if you don’t want to talk to us, we can always take this to the county office and request an official investigation into falsified reports.” She lets the words sink in before adding, “I have a lot of time on my hands, and I love a good legal battle.”
Rose exhales sharply through her nose. “You a lawyer or something like that?”
Miller smiles. “Something like that.”
For a long moment, Rose just stands there, jaw clenched tight, eyes darting back to the street.
Then, finally, she huffs, mutters something under her breath, and steps back.
“Fine. But make it quick.”
