Page 41 of Bad Blood
Judd looked at me, then at each of the others in turn, before casting a sideways glance at Agent Sterling. “First rule of raising kids, Ronnie?” he said, in a way that reminded me that he’d had a hand in raising her. “Don’t forbid them from doing something if you’re certain they’re going to do it anyway.” Judd’s discerning gaze landed back on me. “It’s a waste of a good threat.”
An hour later, Agent Briggs still hadn’t returned Agent Sterling’s call.
Today is a Fibonacci date,and Briggs isn’t answering his phone. I wondered if he was knee-deep in a crime scene—if it had begun.
“We need some ground rules.” Agent Sterling had checked us into Gaither’s one hotel, assigning Agent Starmans to continue trying to get through to Briggs as she briefed the rest of us. With controlled and precise movements, she laid a collection of small metallic objects on the coffee table, one after another.
“Tracking beacons,” she said. “They’re small, but not undetectable. Keep them on your persons at all times.” She waited until we’d each picked up a beacon—about the size and shape of a breath mint—before continuing. “You go nowhere alone. You’re in pairs—or more—at all times, and don’t even think about ditching whichever of us is on your protection detail. And finally…” Agent Sterling pulled two guns out of her suitcase and checked to make sure the safeties were on.
“You know how to handle a firearm?” Agent Sterling looked at Dean, who nodded, before she shifted her gaze to Lia. I wondered if the two of them had been trained to handle weapons before I’d joined the program, or if Agent Sterling had singled them out because of experiences in their pasts.
Lia held her hand out for one of the guns. “I do indeed.”
Judd took first one gun, then the other from Agent Sterling. “I’m only going to say this once, Lia. You don’t draw your weapon unless your lives are in imminent danger.”
For once, Lia bit back her smart-mouthed reply. Judd gave her one of the guns, then turned to Dean.
“And,” he continued, his voice low, “if your livesarein danger and youdodraw your gun? You’d better be prepared to shoot.”
You’ve already buried your daughter. I translated the meaning inherent in Judd’s words.Whatever the fallout, you won’t lose us.
Dean’s hand closed around the gun, and Judd turned eagle eyes to Michael, Sloane, and me. “As for the rest of you hooligans, there are two types of people in a town this size: people who like talking and people who really, really don’t. Stick to the former, or I will jerk the lot of you out of here so fast you get whiplash.”
There was no questioning that order. I could hear the military man in Judd’s cadence, his tone.
“This is an information-gathering mission,” Sloane translated. “If we see a hostile…”
Do not engage.
The best place to find people who wanted to talk was the local watering hole. In this case, we quickly zeroed in on a diner. It was just far enough away from the historic part of town to serve primarily locals, but not so far that they didn’t get the occasional tourist—perfect.
MAMA REE’S NOT-A-DINER.The sign above the door told me pretty much everything I needed to know about the establishment’s owner.
“But Cassie,” Sloane whispered as we stepped into the restaurant. “Itisa diner.”
A woman in her early sixties looked up from behind the counter and gave us the once-over, as if she’d heard Sloane’s whispered words. “Help yourself to any table you’d like,” she called after she’d finished studying us.
I opted for a booth by the window in between a pair of senior citizens playing chess and a quartet of even older women gossiping over breakfast. Sloane wasn’t kidding when she’d said the average age of Gaither’s citizens was on an incline.
Lia and Sloane slid into the booth beside me. Dean and Michael took the other side, and Sterling and Judd helped themselves to stools at the counter.
“We don’t do menus.” The woman who’d told us to take a seat—Mama Ree, I was guessing—set five waters down on our table. “Right now, it’s breakfast. In about ten minutes, it’ll be lunch. For breakfast, we have breakfast food. For lunch, we have lunch food. If you can think of it, I can cook it, so long as you’re not expecting anything fancy.”
She saidfancylike it was a dirty word.
“I could go for some biscuits and gravy.” Dean’s Southern accent got a smile out of the woman.
“Side of bacon,” she declared. It wasn’t a question.
Dean was nobody’s fool. “Yes, ma’am.”
“French toast for me,” Lia requested. Ree harrumphed—my gut saidFrenchcut too close tofancy—but wrote down Lia’s order nonetheless before turning her attention to me. “And for you, missy?”
Those words took me back. This wasn’t my first time at the Not-A-Diner. I could see myself in a corner booth, crayons spread out on the table.
“I’ll have a blueberry pancake,” I found myself saying. “With strawberry sauce and an Oreo milkshake.”
My order caused the unflappable woman to pause, as if that combination was familiar to her, the way the apothecary garden had been to me.
