“Why?” he asks.
Neither Julian nor I answer.
We do not know enough yet.
I reach across the desk and tap the timestamp with one finger.
“We need someone who can prove what was done to this.”
Julian’s attention stays on the photograph for several seconds. Then he closes the folder and looks at me.
“I think I know someone who can help.”
Chapter Two
Donna
Mocha stands in the middle of my new office with a roll of packing paper hanging from his mouth.
I balance a box against my hip and give him the side-eye.
“That had better be the only thing you’ve stolen.”
His ears lift.
He does not look guilty. Mocha has never looked guilty a day in his life. He looks pleased with himself.
I lower the box onto the desk and point toward the wastebasket. “Drop it.”
He keeps staring at me.
“Mocha.”
The paper falls from his mouth.
“Thank you.”
His tail hits the side of the desk hard enough to make the empty pencil cup wobble.
The office is still mostly boxes and packing paper.
I signed the lease three days ago after convincing myself that the uneven floor has character, the narrow front window lets in plenty of light, and the radiator probably does not make that noise all winter. The landlord called the space charming. I called it affordable, and that was the end of the negotiation.
There are two rooms, if I am generous with the word. The back room has a postage-sized counter, a laughably small fridge, and a coffeemaker. The front room holds my desk, two chairs for clients, and a metal filing cabinet that took forty minutes and a lot of muscle to drag through the door. Plus Mocha's bed, which he is ignoring in favor of supervising me.
“You’re doing great,” I tell him.
He gives me one quick whip of his tail against the desk.
“I appreciate the support.”
I open the box on the desk and pull out a stapler, three legal pads, a framed photograph, and a ceramic mug that says WORLD’S OKAYEST DETECTIVE.
The mug was a gift from someone who thought it was funny.
It is funny.
That does not mean I plan to display it where clients can see it.