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DANIEL
It feels like I’m in the midst of some big motherfucking maze and can’t find my bearings to get out. Goddammit.
I’ve always been a human lie detector, same as Bronson, and Mac hadn’t been lying to me.
But how am I supposed to believe that she’s not the Mac my sister mentioned? That she’s not the Mackenzie who was listed under my sister’s name in that damn binder? Why the fuck else would that invisible man lead me to her in the first place?
None of this shit makes a bit of sense, and frustration is consuming me like a flesh-eating disease.
We’ve both been quiet the entire trip back here. As she unlocks the gate and shoves it open, I follow her inside without a word while questions continue circling in my head.
What kind of business uses tally marks in employees’ binders? And no use of computers, but binders? It’s fucking weird, no doubt about it.
Agitation blankets each of Mac’s rapid, almost robotic strides toward her garage. “I guess that’s it.”
“What do you mean, that’s it?” My words come out harsher than I intend, but my frustration has completely taken hold. “We barely scratched the surface.”
Once she dismantles the locks on the bay doors and opens them, she whirls around on me. “I agreed to help you with the Human Resources building. I did my part and got us in and out without anyone knowing.”
She gestures between us. “I held up my end of the deal, so we’re even. That means this is the end of the line for us.”
“That wasn’t our agreement.” I grind out the words from between clenched teeth.
She stomps toward the Chevy Malibu and plants her palms on the outer section beneath the open hood. As she surveys the parts that remain, her tone is tired. “Look, I’ve got the start of a headache and just want to be left alone.”
Tiny lines frame her mouth. “This is my happy place, and right now, you’re shitting all over it.”
Before I can respond, a plain black Toyota Corolla approaches, drawing my attention. A man sits behind the wheel, aviator sunglasses on his face.
He parks in front of the open garage bays, and as I watch him through the window, something about him sets me on edge and my fingers flexing in preparation to draw my gun.
A wide smile stretches his face the instant he steps from the car. “Hey there!” His Southern accent is dense like the fucking humidity in August.
Mac ventures over. “Can I help you?”
His eyes rake over her with barely concealed hunger, and the urge to launch myself at him is all too tempting.
“Oh, I was just passin’ through and wanted to see old Otis’ place.” He surveys the building with that same fixed smile in place.
“You’re a friend of Otis’?” The guarded way Mac offers this has me wondering if she senses something off about this guy, too.
“Yeah, Otis’ family and mine have been friends for ages. I grew up here but left to work for my father-in-law up in Dothan, Alabama.
“Haven’t been back here in years.” His eyes sweep over the space as if he’s reminiscing. “Place hasn’t changed too much. I remember when he installed these bay doors, here.”
I sense Mac stiffen beside me, but she just nods and gestures toward the hydraulic lift the Malibu’s currently on. “And that lift there, too. The guys recently came to do some warranty work on it and had nothing but wonderful things to say about Chuck Otis.”
The man nods, fond smile still in place. “Good man.”
“Totally.” Mac’s deadpan response appears to fly over the man’s head.
“Well, I should be on my way. It was nice chattin’ with you both…” He lets his words hang expectantly, and Mac supplies her name.
“Mac.” From my periphery, I can see the fingers on her right hand twitch.
The man’s eyes graze over her body, flashing with something I can’t quite pinpoint before his attention veers to me expectantly.
I simply say, “I’m just a customer.” Irritation flares in his eyes, but it disappears so quickly I wonder if I imagined it.
