Chapter Nine

"Okay, girl. I tried to wait until Spencer got back but screw him. I want the deets. Now!" Elana announced when she walked into Shelf Help.

Violet's gaze darted to her best friend as she shook her head and pointed toward a row of books, letting her know they weren't alone.

Elana popped two thumbs up, drew a heart in the air, then pointed toward the back of the store, which translated to: she understood and would be waiting in the romance room.

Not that it was an actual room. Nor did romance take place there. It was a section of the store that Violet had created for the customers who preferred to linger when they weren't ready to go back to the real world. There were three sections, in fact. One for her romance readers, one for the fantasy buffs, and the other for the fairy tale enthusiasts, each with a mural reflecting as much.

She'd painted the three-dimensional murals herself—a hobby she rarely had time for these days—before the store opened to the public a few years ago. Each mural resembled a large window overlooking a scene dedicated to that genre. The one on the right was the fantasy illustration, depicted by the dragon flying high over sparkling water. With help from her cousins Leif and Lance, she'd built shelves resembling a tree. The "branches" reached all the way to the ceiling and held a variety of fantasy-themed books.

The middle section's window was her interpretation of a fairy tale. In the distance were snow-topped mountains, the perfect backdrop for the princess talking to a prince in a meadow. The gauzy curtains added some flair to the design. She'd been a little less dramatic in designing the shelves but had opted for ornamental decorations to adorn the area where she kept a variety of fairy tales and fairy-tale-themed books.

Last but not least was the favorite among the moms who frequented her store. They were often drawn to the fall theme that was there year-round. She'd painted the scene to reflect a cozy courtyard just beyond the window, with leaves in reds and golds fluttering about on the breeze. The shelves held flameless candles among the variety of romance books, and little plug-ins provided a subtle scent of pumpkin. Violet had adjusted the overhead lights to be less intrusive in that section, plus she added some comfortable chairs. The other sections were meant to be fun with their bean bag chairs and smaller, kid-size seating.

Nearly every customer who came into the store had something to say about the designs, making her proud that she'd taken the time to do it. Ever since Holt Callahan arrived in town, she'd tossed around the idea of creating a mystery section. She could practically see the view from the window; only this one would be peering into a room to see a chalk outline of a body, some blood sprayed on a cabinet. The main reason she hadn't done it yet was due to all the kids that frequented her store. The last thing she wanted was to give one of them nightmares. Or worse.

"I'm sorry," the customer said as she started toward the checkout counter, pulling Violet back to the present.

"Don't you dare apologize," Violet teased with a smile. "You can linger all day if you'd like. I've even got comfy chairs in the back."

The woman laughed as she set three books on the counter. "Don't tempt me. I've recently gone back to reading paperbacks rather than my Kindle. There's something about the feel of the book in my hand. If I'm not careful, I'll spend the entire day lost in a fantasy world."

"I know exactly what you mean. Those are the best places to be, right?" That was the very reason she'd opened Shelf Help in the first place. Her love of reading started when she was little and followed her right into adulthood. It was either open a bookstore or become a teacher. Since her family liked to call her sassy and not good with authority, she opted for the former.

"This is a great little place, by the way," the woman said as she swiped her credit card. "I had no idea it was even here."

"Do you live in Coyote Ridge?" Violet asked.

The woman shook her head. "Embers Ridge. Real estate's hard to come by here. But maybe one day."

Violet grabbed a goody bag from under the counter and passed it to the woman along with the receipt.

"Ooh." The woman flashed a smile. "What's this?"

"Bookmarks, pens. A keychain or two. Just some goodies I got from a few indie authors you might want to check out."

"Thank you."

"You're very welcome." She tapped the top book. "When you're done with that, come back by. I'd love to chat about it. And if you're interested, a group of ladies gather here on Mondays for their romance book club." Violet pointed toward the bag. "There's more info about it in the bag."

The woman's eyes lit up. "I'd love that."

"Have a great day," she called, watching as the customer headed for the door.

She waited until the bells stopped jangling before she headed to the back to find Elana. Her friend was sitting in one of the lounge chairs, ankles crossed, eyes closed.

"Why don't you ever invite me to the romance book club?" Elana asked, eyebrows lifted though her eyes remained closed.

"Because we like to talk about the book, not poke fun at it."

"Tell me you don't find the dirty talk funny," Elana said with a smile. "There's not a man alive who'd dare say some of that stuff to a woman. Not one who could make it sound sexy, anyway."

"There's at least one," she said softly.

Elana's eyes popped open. "Really?"

"Oh, yeah." Violet could still hear Simon in her mind, the sultry sound of his voice as he told her all the dirty things he was going to do to her right before he did.

"So? How hot was the sex?" Elana asked, placing her hands primly in her lap.

"On a scale of one to ten, about seven hundred ninety-four."

Her smile spread. "That's all?"

Violet covered her face as she took a seat in the other chair. "I skipped out on him."

"Wait, what? I thought he was comin' to your house."

"He did."

"And you…" Her expression morphed into something resembling horror. "You left him there?"

She peeked over at her friend and nodded.

Elana sat up straight, laughing. "Oh, my God. When? Why?"

Shrugging, she flopped back and huffed. "I don't know. An hour ago. Because I'm an idiot."

"Did you at least text him?"

She shook her head, staring up at the ceiling. "He left me a voicemail. And he sent a couple of texts. I can't bring myself to respond."

"Why not?"

"Why didn't you tell me a short-term fling would be so hard?"

She could feel her friend looking at her. "Which part was the hard part?"

Violet turned her head, looked over at Elana, and dropped her voice to a barely-there whisper. "The part where I think I fell in love with him."

Elana opened her mouth, closed it, then swallowed before saying, "Seriously?"

Violet flopped back again. "At the very least, I came down with the feelings flu."

"Oh."

"No. Not oh ." She lifted her head to look at her best friend. "I caught feelings, Elana. Feelings . Ugghh."

"Ohhh." Elana sounded more sympathetic.

"I've never felt this…" Violet waved her hand in a circle over her chest and belly. "Whenever I think about him, I get…"

"Nauseous?"

Violet laughed. "Yes. But in a good way. God."

"That's gotta be a good thing, right?"

Violet shook her head. No way was it good. It was bad. Very, very bad. How could she go and do something so stupid? Thanks to the curse, there wasn't a chance in hell that Simon would fall in love with her, which meant she would now be the victim of unrequited love.

"Wow." Elana exhaled heavily. "I'm not sure I've ever had sex good enough to make me fall in love immediately."

She didn't bother to tell her friend that it wasn't just the sex, although that was a huge part of it. Since she doubted Elana would want to hear how his sweetness made her swoon, she opted to keep the topic on the hot stuff.

"And yeah, the sex was amazing," Violet crooned. "Ah. Maze. Ing. Not only does he have the tools, he knows how to use them."

Elana's eyebrows rose slowly. "Tell me more."

Violet proceeded to fill her in on what happened. She didn't bother trying to skip the juicy parts even though her face warmed as she relayed how Simon had made her come on the kitchen counter.

"Wow. I'm surprised you could walk this mornin'. Let alone sneak out without wakin' him."

"I know." She groaned. "I'm so embarrassed. He probably thinks I'm a lunatic."

"He's not the only one."

"Hey." Violet pointed at her friend. "You don't get to cast judgment."

"No judgment. I'm just wonderin' when you went and lost your mind. You should be at home right now, going for round four."

Violet was pretty sure there were no more rounds in her future. Her love life had just experienced a TKO, and she was responsible for it. But what other choice did she have? It was pointless to pretend this might turn into something more. The guy was temporary.

Worse, there was a good chance Simon Jennings had ruined her for all other men.

·····

After taking a shower and feeling the sting on his back where Violet's nails had scraped him, Simon had stopped thinking last night's encounter with her was a dream.

Not that the alternative was any better. Not once since he lost his virginity to Marybeth Hartford when he was a senior in high school had a woman slipped out on him. Or vice versa. He tended not to fall in bed with someone he might find himself eager to get away from.

Apparently, the same couldn't be said for Violet.

Hoping to come up with a plan to address this with her sooner rather than later, Simon returned to the main floor of the bed and breakfast to steal one of the cinnamon rolls he'd smelled earlier, only to run into Holt.

"You're meeting Travis this morning, right?"

Simon stopped walking, mentally pulling up his calendar.

Shit.

"Yeah," he told Holt.

"In fifteen minutes."

Simon glanced at his watch.

Double shit.

"Yeah."

He'd promised to meet Travis Walker this morning after much back and forth. The guy wasn't easy to pin down and evidently was extremely reluctant to talk to outsiders. If he put Travis off now, there was a good chance he wouldn't get another opportunity. And without something to work on, he had no reason to be in Coyote Ridge.

Which meant he couldn't go straight to the bookstore to confront Violet like he'd hoped to.

"You think I could get a cinnamon roll?" he asked Holt. "And maybe some coffee?"

"I'll save you one for when you get back. It's ten minutes out to his house. You don't wanna be late."

Well, hell.

Ten minutes later, almost right on the money, Simon was pulling up in front of an impressive old Victorian. Rather than park in the single-car driveway and risk blocking someone in, he parked at the curb.

Doing his best to stop thinking about Violet and remember the real reason he was in Coyote Ridge in the first place, Simon got out of the car. He paused for a moment, taking stock of his surroundings.

Unlike Violet's neighborhood with the matching houses and yards, this street was bigger, the houses taking up more space, and more acreage dedicated to the yards. It looked like a neighborhood where families lived. Where backyard barbecues took place around the inground swimming pools.

He took his time walking up the driveway, admiring the house. It wasn't quite his style, but he would admit it was rather impressive. When he reached the narrow path that led to the wraparound porch, he half expected to see toys—maybe a bike haphazardly dropped, a toy truck, some dolls—scattered around the front porch, announcing the presence of children in the house. There were none. The porch swing on the right side had a light blue cushion, the only sign that it might get some use now and again.

Simon didn't usually meet people at their homes if he could help it. Certainly not people related to the cases he was reporting on. He preferred more public settings. Less chance of things getting awkward. He'd learned from experience that people reacted very differently to the trauma that had impacted their lives. Whether they were the family of the victim or the family of the perpetrator, the range of emotions ran the gamut, and no matter how hard he tried, he could never predict how someone would react.

Unfortunately, Travis Walker insisted on keeping their conversation on the down-low and according to Holt, the fastest way to start rumors was to be seen with an outsider in town. It'd been nine days since Holt and Travis had a sit-down at the diner, and Simon was still hearing whispers about it. And since speculation over Simon's presence in Coyote Ridge was all over the place—Bailey had someone ask her if he was there to buy the B and B—he figured it was better to be safe than sorry.

So here he was, walking up the wide steps to meet with Travis Glenn Walker, born and raised in Coyote Ridge, Texas. Date of birth was July 15, 1978, which made him forty-four years old. Married, five children. His parents, Curtis and Lorrie, were alive and well, still living in the same house Travis and his six brothers had grown up in. Travis owned and operated Alluring Indulgence Resort, a thriving fetish resort located right here in this small town.

And that was just the information he remembered off the top of his head. He'd done a deep dive because it always benefited him to know what he was getting himself into. That, and knowing the details—names, ages, etc.—helped to remind him that he wasn't merely reporting a story; he was relaying particulars of someone's life.

Holt had given him a little insight but not nearly enough to prepare him for this visit. Considering Holt was still new to town, he didn't have much information, and for whatever reason, the townspeople didn't talk much about Travis. They had plenty to say about every other Walker who lived there but very little about the man whose wife had been murdered in the downtown square not quite two years ago.

Taking a deep breath, Simon walked across the porch and knocked on the wooden screen door.

A moment later, the door opened, and a man appeared.

"Travis?" Simon asked as they stared at one another.

"Gage," the man replied, pushing the screen open.

The husband, Simon recalled from the information he'd pulled up. Jason Gage Matthews-Walker, born June 24, 1980. Married to Travis Walker and Kylie Marie Prescott Walker. A former police officer who'd done some undercover work in Dallas and now worked security at Alluring Indulgence Resort.

Simon had thought someone had gotten the story wrong when they mentioned both Gage and Travis as Kylie Walker's husbands. Based on the documents he'd procured during his initial review, Travis and Kylie's marriage on June 8, 2002, preceded the ceremony on December 10, 2013, when the couple formally brought Gage into their marriage. Yes, Travis was her husband in the eyes of the courts, but previous articles in the Coyote Ridge Gazette had clarified that they were, in fact, a polyamorous throuple.

Or they had been prior to Kylie's death. Since then, Travis and Gage had formalized their nuptials and were now legally wed.

When the screen door opened wide enough, Simon held out his hand. "Simon Jennings."

Gage shook it but put little effort into the gesture before stepping back and motioning for Simon to come inside.

"Travis is in his office."

Simon had little time to scope the place as he followed Gage through the dark-wood-paneled foyer toward a set of French doors.

Proving he was irritated by Simon's presence, Gage took one step into the room and stopped. "Travis, Simon," Gage grumbled. "Simon, Travis."

Travis Walker stood up from where he sat at a desk positioned in the center of the room. The man was a giant. At six-foot-five, he had a good five inches on Simon. But it was his presence that consumed all the oxygen in the room. There was something larger than life about him, and it was recognizable within seconds.

Travis gestured toward a chair opposite his desk. "Sit."

Confused by what felt very cloak-and-daggerish, Simon decided to indulge the guy for a minute. As his own father was quick to say, this wasn't his first rodeo. He'd talked to many victims, families, and even the accused over the years in order to get to the meat of a story. Some were eager to talk; others wanted him to stay out of their business. He got the feeling Travis actually straddled the fence, which meant one wrong move, and he could fall either way.

"I've gotta go pick up the kids from your mom and dad's," Gage said, talking to Travis. "We'll be back in an hour or so."

Simon heard the words he wasn't saying: Have this guy gone before I get back.

A moment later, the door closed behind him.

"If now isn't a good time," Simon began.

"It's never a good time to talk about my dead wife," Travis grumbled, his tone lacking an ounce of life. "But I take it Holt told you the same thing he told me?"

Simon assumed Travis was referring to Holt's belief that Kylie's mother, Meredith Prescott, was the sole witness of what could only be described as a mafia-style killing at the hands of Maximillian Adorite. If that were the case, Meredith's testimony would be a big deal. There was some speculation in the articles he'd uncovered that it had the power to bring down the Southern Boy Mafia once and for all now that Max was at the helm. That was what the FBI believed, anyway.

"He gave me the gist," Simon admitted.

"So you agree with his delusion that my wife's mother is somehow mixed up with the mob?"

Holt had warned him that Travis hadn't seen value in the information he'd provided. Simon understood to some degree. He hadn't yet given this the attention it would deserve if he decided to investigate because he was still trying to determine which angle to pursue. Considering the vast number of cases people sent his way, some asking for his help, some merely for input, and others simply wanting him to do a segment on it, he didn't jump into new things quickly like he had when he started. Having gone down the rabbit hole a few times, he'd learned to be more selective with what he wanted to pursue.

"Delusion or not," Simon said, "it's got merit."

"Enough that you're gonna look into it?"

Simon frowned. "You understand I'm a journalist, not an investigator. I don't take on cases that need to be solved. I generally look at current or closed cases and attempt to debunk or prove the facts as they're written."

Travis stared at him. "Then why are you here?"

That was a damn good question. Simon had been wondering the same thing for the past couple of days. He'd come at Holt's request because, yes, the information Holt had provided intrigued him. Specifically the fact that it involved the Southern Boy Mafia. He had an unresolved curiosity when it came to the Dallas-based mafia family. More so now that Maximillian Adorite was restructuring as though he was looking to start a war. In turn, Simon was curious about the disappearance of Meredith Prescott, but he wasn't sold on the idea that it was a crime. The woman could very well be in hiding, and by looking into the matter, Simon could do far more harm than good.

"I'm curious," he admitted. "I think Holt uncovered something interesting. If I tug on the string a little, there might be a story. As for how it pertains to you or your family…"

Simon let the sentence trail because he honestly didn't know that it did. Aside from it pertaining to his dead wife's mother, anyway. Travis's wife was murdered. She was run down in the street. There were witnesses, and only one person was responsible. There was nothing to debunk there. He honestly wasn't sure why Holt felt the need to drag Travis into it in the first place.

Travis leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. "I want information."

"On...?"

"All of it."

Simon exhaled heavily. "I think your best bet is to hire an investigator."

"I have one," he grumbled. "But he's about to get married. Until he does, I'm leavin' him be."

"Then maybe you reach out to him after," Simon suggested. Based on the information he had, Meredith Prescott had been gone for years. This case was about as cold as it got, so the need for expediency wasn't there.

"I'll pay you."

Simon shook his head. "It doesn't work that way."

"It can."

He shook his head again. "No. It can't. I relay the information I get how I want to relay it. You pay me, then you expect control over that. I don't work that way."

"Five hundred thousand dollars," Travis said, his eyes cold.

Simon frowned. "For what?"

"To find Meredith and figure out how her disappearance ties back to the Southern Boy Mafia."

"Look, Travis—"

"One million," Travis said, his eyes cold.

Simon sat up straight. "I'm not bartering here. I don't need the money, and like I said, that's not how this works."

"Two—"

"Stop," Simon barked, getting to his feet. "I'll look into it. High level," he clarified. "If I can see the threads and think they need to be pulled, I'll reach out and let you know. But that's all I can offer."

Ten minutes later, as he was pulling into the B and B parking lot, Simon could still see the look on Travis Walker's face. He'd interviewed many people, and he'd seen grief on the faces of those who'd lost loved ones. But in all the years he'd been doing this, he wasn't sure he'd ever seen anyone as grief-stricken as that man.

He would look into this as he'd promised. Travis needed him to do that much. He only hoped he could remain detached as he did. Otherwise, he might find himself going down a rabbit hole with no way out.