Page 15 of Earning Her Trust
She swallowed, throat dry. “Yeah. Me, too.”
Too often, she pictured herself as one of them—erased, forgotten, last seen between a shift at the casino and the edge of some back road.
It was a crap feeling.
She sat rigid, jaw locked, eyes peeled to the strip of highway unspooling in the headlights. She tried to count fence posts, telephone poles, anything to take the edge off. Didn’t help. The mental image of Leelee in that last lonely stretch gnawed at her like a bad tooth.
They cut down Main Street with the whole town still asleep. The only sign of life was the golden glow from Nessie’s Place and the blinking red light at the corner that never seemed to change. Ghost took a side street, tires crunching gravel, and cut the engine half a block from their destination.
Padilla Auto slouched between a dilapidated feed store and an empty lot choked with wild grass. The sign was hand-painted, the red letters faded to pink. Lights were on inside, even though it wasn’t quite seven.
Ghost didn’t move right away. He sat with his hands on the wheel, studying the storefront like he expected someone to shoot out the glass.
She turned to look at the shop, trying to see it through his eyes. Nope, she couldn’t do it. If there was a threat here, she didn’t see it. But then again, she wasn’t the one who saw patterns in everything.
“I can handle this,” she said, reaching for her bag. “You don’t have to come in.”
six
He should takeher up on that offer and stay put. Let her handle this. He didn’t even know why he’d offered to come, except that he’d seen her hands shaking around her coffee and that tiny tell had done something uncomfortable to his chest.
Naomi’s face was set in determination, but she kept rubbing her thumb against her forefinger—a gesture that screamed self-comfort. She’d been doing it since they left his cabin. Like she was trying to ground herself.
“I’ll come,” he said.
She looked surprised. “I said I can handle it.”
“I heard you.” Ghost killed the engine, pocketed the keys. “I’m still coming.”
Something flashed across her face—annoyance, maybe relief—before she masked it. Interesting. Most people telegraphed their emotions like they were waving signal flags. Not Naomi. She had layers, shields, just like he did.
He checked the rearview mirror. “Stay, Cinder.”
The dog huffed but settled back against the seat, eyes tracking his every movement as he climbed out of the truck. He’d been on enough raids to know when a building felt off, and the Padilla Auto Shop was ringing all the wrong bells.
There was something about the way the lights burned inside—a single bulb, yellow and weak, illuminating a cluttered front office. Most places this run-down didn’t waste electricity. Especially not at dawn when no customers would be around for hours.
The gravel crunched under his boots as he rounded the hood to meet Naomi. She was already moving toward the shop, her stride purposeful despite the tension in her shoulders. He caught up in three steps, scanning the perimeter as he went. Old habit.
“What’s your read on the family?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
Naomi glanced at him. “Solid family. Dad, Eddie, is second generation Mexican-American and mom, Carina, is Salish, born up on the reservation. They met in college in Missoula, then settled here and raised three daughters, Leelee being the oldest. Their other two are still in school. Eddie opened Padilla Auto with his brother Sampson twenty years ago. Carina works at the health clinic part-time and helps manage the auto shop’s office. No red flags. No shady business deals. Just good, hard-working people.”
Of course he already knew all that, but he’d wanted to hear how she’d say it, what she’d reveal. Her assessment matched his, but there was something else in her voice—a personal investment in these people that went beyond professional duty.
“And Leelee?” he asked.
“Twenty-two. Works at the casino as a cocktail waitress to save money for cosmetology school.” Naomi’s voice softened. “Smart kid. Focused. Loves her family. Not the type to run off.”
They reached the shop’s door. A hand-lettered sign declared OPEN 7 AM-6 PM, with a smaller note taped underneath that read, “Gone fishin’ when I feel like it.”
Ghost scanned the windows, the doors, the metal garage bay still closed tight on its track.
“Ready?” Naomi asked, her hand hovering at the door.
He nodded, bracing himself for what came next. He wasn’t good with grieving families. He wasn’t good with people, period. Sure, he could read them—he understood motives, could predict behavior—but interaction was another thing entirely. Especially when emotions ran high.
At one time, in his old line of work, those people skills, or lack thereof, had been an asset. He’d been able to move people around like chess pieces without qualms, and it had worked. Hell, it had made him a valuable commodity. People didn’t want empathy; they wanted results.
