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“Come on, wouldn’t you like a kid to pass on your legacy?”
At the time, I had to snort. I was working as a receptionist for a car dealership. “What legacy? And where is this coming from? We agreed we didn’t want any.” For going on twenty years.
“I changed my mind.”
“Well, I haven’t.” And at my age, I really wasn’t interested. I’d thought that was the end of it.
It was the end, just not the one I’d expected. He hit me with divorce papers and the news that his much younger girlfriend was pregnant.
In retrospect, I might not have handled things well. After I set his shit on fire, I’d had his BMW towed to a chop shop for parts. Bad of me, I know. Yet the judge forgave me when the bastard had the balls to show up in court with his super-pregnant girlfriend.
Despite The Jerk’s wishes, the judge split everything down the middle—as was fair. We’d both made pretty much the same salary, so The Jerk could shove his snotty attitude.
I got half of all our assets, which meant a nice chunk of cash, given that our house sold during the pandemic for way over asking price. The housing market had blown up in Southern Ontario as people sought more space.
Needing a fresh start, I’d moved out of the Golden Horseshoe area in Ontario to just outside a small town, a good four hours away from my old life. Carleton Place. With the divorce proceeds, I’d bought myself a derelict business formerly called Steel Deals—a junkyard abandoned when the owner disappeared more than a decade earlier. Rumor claimed he’d run from the cops. I didn’t care. The town had taken ownership due to unpaid taxes, and I’d picked it up for a song at auction. Even better, it’d come with a house attached to the property.
A home that required some major renovation to truly make it livable, but I didn’t mind. Adrift and alone for the first time in forever, I’d needed to keep busy. And keep busy I did: painting, redoing floors, cleaning up the plumbing, and testing the electrical. I’d always been a handy girl—blame my father, who’d wanted a boy. Dad might have died of a heart attack when I was twenty-two, but I remembered everything he taught me. I found peace in getting my hands dirty.
I expected the detective to make some sexist remark. Most men did once they found out I owned a junkyard.
Instead, he said, “Have you had any problems since you took ownership?”
“Nope. Usually pretty quiet, day and night.” I’d not yet seen much traffic, probably because I’d not really advertised the reopening.
“Do you know how much money was in your office?”
“Maybe thirty or forty bucks.” I shrugged and fought a wince. “Most people pay by credit card or debit. Bigger purchases, they transfer the funds via email money transfer.”
“You were alone when it happened?”
“Why, Detective, are you trying to find out if I’m single?” I drawled.
“Are you?”
Given I likely looked like a truck had run me over, I doubted he was flirting. Despite the lack of a ring on his finger, a good-looking guy like him probably had a partner.
Not that it mattered. Even if he were available, I didn’t date. Since the divorce, I’d stuck to one-night-stand fucking. Being single didn’t mean I wanted a vibrator taking care of me all the time when the mood hit. I think that was what’d killed me about my ex. Up until the day before he announced the divorce, we were still having sex. For fuck’s sake, he’d had his face between my legs that very morning. He might not have a reliable penis, but the man worked his tongue.
“I live alone. Which reminds me, did anybody go inside my house? I’ve got a dog, and he’s scared of strangers.” I’d adopted Blade at a shelter years ago—some kind of mixed breed with black fur. At one hundred and forty pounds, he looked like a vicious bastard, who might be part wolf. In reality? He was the world’s biggest pussy. It wasn’t just people that frightened him. The dark sent him hiding. Thunderstorms. Fireworks. Using the blender usually had him tucked under the kitchen table, shaking.
While Blade didn’t mind the junkyard in the daytime, he hated it at night. The first time I’d taken him there after dark, he’d gotten so scared, he’d bolted into the towers of metal. Took forever to coax him out, and even longer before he stopped shaking. Out of concern for his safety—and because rocking a massive dog for two hours in my lap cut into my sleep—I now left him home when I worked late, and installed a doggy door that led into a secure dog run for him to do his business.
“Your dog should be secure. Since the crime occurred in your office and outside, there was no need to enter the premises.”
“Good.” The last time I’d had a stranger in the house to hook up my cable, Blade had hidden under my bed. Which would have been fine if he’d not gotten stuck. I’d had to jack my frame to get him out.
“Since we’re on the topic of your home, would you mind if I visited you, perhaps tomorrow, to show you some mug shots?” The detective had yet to pull out a notebook and take any notes.
“You think they’re repeat offenders?”
“I’d say it’s a distinct possibility, given it’s a known pattern with petty crime.”
“Because Ontario’s soft on criminals,” I grumbled. “And I wouldn’t call what they did to me petty.”
“I agree. Hence why we should locate them, given the gravity of their attempt.”
“And if you find them? Then what? They spend a few months in jail and get dumped back on the streets.”
