“Yeah, nothing like a plate of Boomer’s to make it all better. Can I get a to-go box? I’m bringing half of this to Michael.”
“That kid who—”
“Yep, that one.” Lana stuck her fork into the pancakes and cut the pile in a perfect half. “Thanks,” she said to her friend who hovered, probably dumbfounded that Lana was serious about bringing dinner to Michael.
“A to-go box. Check,” Anna said.
Agent Drake slid the tray of syrups in front of Lana. “Can I try for another favor?”
“Sure.” She squirted maple syrup on her half of the stack.
“Once I drop you off at home, can you promise not to go out again tonight?”
“Now that, I can do.”
* * *
When her alarm went off the next morning at six-thirty, Lana didn’t even bother hitting the snooze button. She lowered the volume on a Jonny Diaz song and let the soulful timbre of his voice lull her back to sleep. Just for a little while. She’d earned it. She knew once she started her day the phone would ring nonstop with questions about last night’s drama: a dead body, a teenager threatening a restaurant full of people…
A handsome FBI agent joining Lana for dinner, taking her by the police station to drop off pancakes, then escorting her home. She didn’t want to think about how that story was going to evolve by lunchtime.
There was no story, just a Federal agent doing his job. And last night he’d made it his job to get Lana home safely, to make sure she did not “encounter any more personal threats.” His words.
During their meal he’d asked if she’d meet with a sketch artist to create an image of the man who’d tried to force his way onto the tour boat last night. Lana was pretty sure the guy was a pushy businessman used to getting his way. She’d encountered a few of those since she’d started Delightful Tours.
But she’d rarely encountered men like Agent Drake, sophisticated and imposing in his crisp dark suit, with intimidating eyes that challenged her whenever he glanced in her direction. He did the whole “brooding male” thing exceptionally well. Probably came with the job description.
Yet last night, after Lana talked a teenager out of stabbing her, the agent offered Lana a compassionate shoulder. He’d even teased her a few times. An image of his slight smile drifted across her thoughts… .
She imagined sitting at the Turnstyle across the table from him, sharing a plate of pancakes, only this time he wore a knit shirt and jeans. His hair wasn’t perfectly combed, rather it was mussed in front, and he had a sparkle in his eye… .
Pounding made her jackknife in bed. Heart racing, she scanned her bedroom and realized she’d fallen into a deep sleep. She glanced at the clock. It read 7:14.
Persistent knocking echoed through her apartment. Someone was trying to wake her up.
She slipped on her robe, fastened it in front and hesitated at the front door. She checked the peephole and spotted Agent Drake hovering in her hallway. She stepped back. He knocked again. With a quick breath she opened the door.
“Good morning,” she said, surprised to see him at her place so early.
“It’s not too early, is it? I was able to get a sketch artist. He’ll be here in half an hour.” He cast a quick glance at her robe, then averted his eyes. “Sorry. Chief Wright said you’re always up by seven.”
“I usually am. Do you want to come in?”
“No, I’ll wait by the car. I have to make some calls.”
“Oh, okay. Give me twenty minutes.”
“Take your time.” He turned and went down the stairs.
“Hey, wait a second, isn’t that the same suit you had on last night?”
He turned. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”
“You mean you were up all night?”
“I’ll be in the car.”
“I’ll bring coffee.”
“Great, thanks.”
She shut her door and rushed into the kitchen to put the coffee on. Talk about a man dedicated to his job. He hadn’t slept? He was up all night? Doing what? You couldn’t interview potential witnesses at three in the morning.
Whatever the reason, she felt safer knowing how determined he was to find whoever killed the man who’d washed up on Salish Island.
* * *
Lana showered and was dressed in fifteen minutes. She filled two travel mugs with coffee and pulled a couple of Mom’s cranberry-nut scones from the freezer and defrosted them in the microwave. She bagged them, grabbed her purse and coffees and headed out.
When she opened the apartment building door, she spotted the agent’s car across the street in the exact spot he’d parked it last night when he’d accompanied her upstairs.
Wait a sec, he couldn’t have stayed there all night, could he? Watching her? He was taking a swig from a blue, reusable water bottle when she crossed the street and handed him a coffee. “This will wake you up faster than water.”
“Thanks.” He opened the car door and put it in the cup holder.
“Don’t tell me you slept in your car last night.”
“Okay, I won’t.” He went around the front of the sedan and opened the door for her.
“If you weren’t a federal agent, I would be seriously creeped out.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m a federal agent.” He shut her door.
He was worried about her, his potential witness. Garrett probably figured Lana was his best lead on this case. As she shifted the bag of scones onto the console between them, she reminded herself his interest in her was strictly professional.
He got into the car and she motioned toward the bag. “I brought scones for breakfast.”
“When did you have time to bake scones?”
She smiled. “I baked them in my sleep.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“They’re my mom’s. She’s always trying to outbake her friend Caroline, who owns the Port Whisper Inn.”
His grip on the steering wheel tightened as he pulled away from the curb. “Thanks, I’ll have mine when we get to the P.D.”
“You didn’t really sit outside my apartment all night, did you?”
“Not all night.”
No, Garrett stopped by his former mother-in-law’s place early this morning, hoping to get the awkward encounter over with. No one answered when he knocked, which seemed odd since she ran an inn out of her home. Maybe she didn’t have any guests.
More likely she saw him from an upstairs window and chose not to open her door. He couldn’t blame her. There was too much history there, too much pain.
“You okay?” Lana asked.
“Yep.”
He’d be better once she gave a description to the sketch artist and Garrett could get traction on this case.
“I may not study people for a living, but I’m going to make an educated guess that you’re really not okay,” she said.
“I’m tracking a serial killer.”
“No, it’s something else.”
How on earth was this woman able to read him so easily? Not good. Garrett prided himself on being able to keep