Things We Hide from the Light (Knockemout Series, 2)

The Knockemout Public Library was housed across the hall from the police department in the Knox Morgan Municipal Building, a name that was the source of endless entertainment for me.

I snapped a picture of the bold, gold lettering and fired it off in a text to the man, the grump, the legend himself.

Knox’s response was immediate. A middle finger emoji.

With a grin, I put my phone away and headed inside.

The building had been largely funded by a hefty “donation” that came from the lottery winnings Knox had tried to force on Nash. It was, in my opinion, an expert-level “fuck you.”

Apparently, it had also driven a wedge between the brothers, one that had been reinforced by inherited stubbornness and subpar family communication.

Not that Knox and I had shared any heart-to-hearts in all our years of friendship. We kept things light, didn’t burden each other with the heavy stuff. Didn’t try to bring things into the light for useless examination.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was how you made a relationship last.

No burdens. No emotional baggage.

Keep your needs few and your quality time fun.

With this in mind, I made a specific point not to peer through the glass into the police station. I wasn’t prepared to make small talk with the chief of police mere hours after hearing him bringing himself to climax in the shower one not-so-soundproofed wall away.

Just thinking about it had my cheeks heating, my downtown fluttering.

I’d never stood at a sink brushing my teeth for that long in my life.

One thing was certain, Chief Morgan was a ticking time bomb. And whoever this Angel was, I hoped I wouldn’t have to hate her.

I headed into the library. It was busier and louder than I expected. Thanks to Drag Queen Story Hour, the children’s section had the energy of a preschool at snack time. Kids and adults alike listened with rapt attention as Cherry Poppa and Martha Stewhot read about diverse families and adopting pets.

I stayed and listened for an entire book before remembering I was on a mission.

I found Sloane Walton, librarian extraordinaire, on the second floor in the stacks arguing about something bookish with the elderly yet fashionable Hinkel McCord.

Sloane was unlike any librarian I’d known. She was a petite spitfire with lavender-tinted platinum-blond hair. She dressed like a cool teenager, drove a souped-up Jeep Wrangler, and hosted a monthly Booze and Books Happy Hour. From what I had gathered, she had single-handedly turned the failing Knockemout Public Library into the heart of the community through grit, determination, and a number of grants.

There was something about her that reminded me of the nice, cool girls in high school. I’d once been a member of that exclusive club.

“All I’m saying is give Octavia Butler a try. And then come back with apology flowers and tequila because you’re dead wrong,” she told the man.

Hinkel shook his head. “I’ll give it a try. But when I hate it, you need to deliver one of them loaves of sundried tomato bread.”

Sloane stuck her hand out. “Deal. Good tequila. Not ‘I stole this crap from my parents’ liquor cabinet for the high school bonfire’ tequila.”

Hinkel nodded shrewdly and shook her hand. “Deal.”

“Do you always bribe patrons with baked goods?” I asked.

Hinkel flashed me pearly whites and doffed his straw fedora. “Miss Lina, if you don’t mind my saying, you put the autumn leaves to shame with your beauty.”

I plucked a paperback off the shelf and fanned myself with it. “Good sir, you certainly know how to turn a lady’s head,” I said, adopting a southern belle accent.

Sloane crossed her arms, feigning irritation. “Excuse me, Mr. McCord. I thought I was your Sunday morning flirtation.”

He gestured at his pin-striped suit and bow tie. “There is more than enough of Hinkel to go around. Now if you two lovely ladies don’t mind, I’m gonna go downstairs and flirt with a queen or two.”

We watched the centenarian spryly head for the stairs, cane in one hand, book in the other.

“Knockemout sure grows them charming,” I observed.

“We sure do,” Sloane agreed, gesturing for me to follow her.

We entered a spacious conference room where Sloane headed straight for the dry erase board and began removing several crude drawings of penises.

“Teenagers?” I guessed.

She shook her head, making her perky ponytail dance. “Northern Virginia urologists. They had their quarterly meeting here yesterday. Figured I’d clean up the evidence before story hour ends.”

“I didn’t see that one coming.”

Sloane flashed me a smirk. “Just wait until the NoVaP host their meetup in January.”

I ran the possibilities in my head. “Northern Virginia proctologists?”

“Butts everywhere.” Sloane dropped the eraser and started organizing the markers by color. “What brings you into my fine establishment today?”

I made myself useful and started stuffing the scattering of penis-centric handouts into the recycling can. “Looking for a book recommendation or two.”

And some information, I added silently.

“Came to the right place. What’s your poison? Thriller? Time travel? Autobiography? Poetry? Police procedural? Fantasy? Self-help? Small-town romance hot enough to make you blush?”

I thought of Nash in the shower last night. The thump of a fist against wet tile. The strangled oath. I felt a little light-headed. “Something with murders,” I decided. “Also, is there any kind of county database I could use to search properties?”

“Looking to make your visit permanent?”

“No,” I said quickly. “I have a friend who lives in DC. They’re looking to move out of the city and open a business.”

It was a lame lie. But Sloane was a busy librarian and people around here were quirky. She wasn’t going to waste time poking holes in my story.

“What kind of business?”

Dammit.

“Custom car garage? I mean, I think it’s some kind of custom car garage.”

Sloane nudged her glasses up her nose. “I’m sure your friend knows how to use the usual property listing websites.”

“He—she, er, they do. But what if the property isn’t for sale? They’ve got deep pockets and have been known to make offers that were hard to refuse.”

Technically that part wasn’t a lie. Exactly.

She pinned me with a curious look. I was usually much better at spinning an appropriate tale. That whole Nash in the shower thing must have really thrown me. Note to self: Avoid men who make you stupid.

“In that case, you could try a county assessment database. Most have GIS maps of properties, their records, and their tax assessments. I can give you the links.”

Twenty minutes later, I did my best to tiptoe past Drag Queen Story Hour with my stack of unsexy murder novels, one book on conquering self-destructive tendencies, and colorful sticky notes with the names of three county property databases.

I made it out the door and into the hall when a familiar voice stopped me. “Investigator Lina Solavita.”

I froze, then slowly pivoted on my boot heels.

A ghost from the past smirked at me as the door to the police station closed behind him. He’d grown a mustache since I’d last seen him and added ten or so pounds, but it looked good on him.

“Marshal Nolan Graham. What are you doing—” I didn’t need to finish the question. There was only one local case that would require a U.S. marshal’s presence.

“Caught a case.” He plucked the novel off the top of my stack and peeked under the sticky notes at the cover. “You won’t like this one.”

“One weekend five or so years ago and you think you know my taste in books?”

He flashed me a grin. “What can I say? You’re memorable.”

Nolan was a cocky pain in the ass. But he was good at his job, not a misogynistic idiot, and if memory served, he was also a great dancer.

“Wish I could say the same. Nice mustache, by the way,” I teased.

He smoothed his finger and thumb over it. “Wanna take it for a spin later?”

“Still an incurable ass, I see.”

“It’s called confidence. And it’s built on years of experience with satisfied women.”

I grinned. “You’re the worst.”

“Yeah. I know. What the hell are you doing here? Somebody steal the Mona Lisa?”

“I’m in town visiting friends. Catching up on my reading.” I held up the stack of books.

His eyes narrowed. “Bullshit. You don’t take vacations. What’s Pritzger Insurance after in this place?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come on. Entertain me. I’m basically sitting on some Podunk chief of police waiting for a dipshit to try to finish the job.”

“You think Duncan Hugo is going to try again? Do you have intel on that?”

“Well, aren’t we well informed?”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s a small town. We’re all well informed.”

“Then you don’t need me to connect the dots.”

“Come on. Hugo was taking a run at some list to impress Daddy, but he blew it. Last I heard, he was in the wind. He’s got no reason to come back and finish the job.”

“Unless Chief Amnesia suddenly remembers the shooting. All we’ve got is the word of a batshit, pain-in-the-ass, evil twin ex-girlfriend locked up in prison. And the testimony of a twelve-year-old. None of the physical evidence would hold up. Stolen car. Unregistered gun. No prints.”

Duncan Hugo had teamed up with Naomi’s twin sister, Tina, to lie, cheat, and steal their way through northern Virginia before he’d made the ghastly mistake of shooting Nash.

“What about the dashcam footage?” I pressed.

Nolan shrugged. “It’s dark. Guy had on a hoodie and gloves. You can barely make out a profile. But a half-decent attorney could argue it was literally anyone else.”

“Still. Why send you in to babysit? Hugo’s small-time, isn’t he?”

Nolan raised an eyebrow.

“Ohhh. The feds are after Daddy.”

Anthony Hugo was a crime lord whose territory included Washington, DC, and Baltimore. While his son dabbled in stolen electronics and cars, Daddy Dearest had an ugly reputation for racketeering, drugs, and sex trafficking.

“I’m not at liberty to say,” he said, jingling the change in his pocket. “Now, spill it. What pretty little treasure are you after?”

My smile was feline. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

Nolan put his hand on the wall behind me and leaned in like a high school quarterback with the perky head cheerleader. “Come on, Lina. Maybe we could work together?”

But I was no perky cheerleader. I also wasn’t a team player. “Sorry, Marshal. I’m on vacation. And just like work, I do that alone too.” It was safer that way.

He shook his head. “The good ones are always stubbornly single.”

I cocked my head to study him. In his government-issue black suit and tie, he looked like the top Bible salesperson in the district. “Didn’t you get married?” I asked.

He held up his bare left hand. “Didn’t take.”

Beneath the bravado, I caught a whiff of sad.

“The job?” I guessed.

He shrugged. “What can I say? Not everyone can deal.”

I got it. The travel. The long weeks of obsession. The rush of victory when a case came together. Not everyone on the outside could handle it.

I wrinkled my nose in sympathy. “Sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Yeah. Me too. You could make me feel better. Dinner? Drinks? Heard this place called Honky Tonk a few blocks over has decent scotch. We could go have a few for old time’s sake.”

I could only imagine Knox’s reaction if I wandered into his bar with a U.S. marshal in tow. While his brother was a fan of law and order, Knox had a rebellious streak when it came to rule books.

“Hmm.” I needed to take a beat. I needed a plan, a strategy.

The opening of the station door saved me from having to formulate an answer. Then it was the scowl on Nash’s face that left me too tongue-tied to spit one out.

“You lost, Marshal?” Nash asked. His voice was deceptively mild with a bit more southern honey layered on top than usual. He was dressed in his uniform of dark-gray Knockemout PD button-down and tactical pants, both of which looked like they’d been washed and ironed. Both of which also looked fifty million times hotter than Nolan’s suit.

Damn you, thin shower walls. Damn you to hell.

My throat was dry and my brain went stupid, putting Nash’s low groan from the night before on repeat in my head.

If broody, wounded Nash was sexy, bossy-pants Chief Morgan was a panty melter.

His gaze flicked to me, then ran from head to toe.

Nolan kept his hand where it was above my head, but he shifted so he could look at Nash. “Just catching up with an old friend, Chief. Have you had the pleasure of meeting Investigator Solavita?”

I now owed Nolan a knee to the balls.

“Investigator?” Nash repeated.

“Insurance investigator,” I said quickly before shooting a glare at Nolan. “Chief Morgan and I know each other.”

Usually I was good under pressure. No. Not just good. I was great under pressure. I was patient and smart and cunning when necessary. But Nash giving me that hard, authoritarian look like he wanted to drag me into an interview room and yell at me for an hour was definitely screwing with my balance.

“I’m guessing not as well as you and I know each other,” Nolan said to me with a wink.

“Seriously?” I demanded. “Get over it.”

“Angel and I are close,” Nash drawled without looking away from me.

Angel? I was the Angel from Nash’s shower fantasy? My brain launched into a graphic replay of my nocturnal eavesdropping. I shook myself mentally and decided to deal with that information later.

“We share a wall,” I said, not sure why I felt the need to explain. My past with Nolan was none of Nash’s business. My present with Nash was none of Nolan’s.

“Shared a bath too yesterday,” Nash said.

My jaw dropped, and a sound like an accordion getting crushed wheezed out of me.

Both men looked at me. I shut my mouth with a hard snap.

I was going to knee Nolan in the balls and push Nash down the stairs, I decided.

“She always was a sucker for law enforcement,” Nolan said, rocking back on his heels and looking like he was enjoying this.

I was fuming, but before I could let the two testosterone-addled idiots have it, the library door opened. Nash moved to hold it.

“Ma’am,” he said to Cherry Poppa as she exited.

“Charmer,” she cooed.

Nolan bowed.

“It’s certainly yummy out here,” the drag queen observed as she headed for the door.

“Well, this has been fun,” I snarled at the idiots clogging the hallway before following the beautiful drag queen outside.

“You know what no one tells you about standing in the middle of a pissing contest?” Cherry said to me with a toss of her blond curls.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“You’re the one who ends up smelling like pee.”