Sassy Blonde (Three Chicks Brewery 1)

“None that the detective working the case knows about, but from what I hear, this isn’t the first time a car has gone missing from the amusement park over the last few weeks.”

“Pricks,” Beckett muttered.

Hayes nearly responded when he noticed a man coming down the hallway. “Listen, I’ve got to run. I’ll reach out if we need that ride.”

“Good luck.”

The call ended, and Hayes nudged Maisie’s arm. “I suspect we’ve got news.”

She glanced to her left and stiffened enough that Hayes held her hand tighter.

Detective Stewart, an older gentleman who was likely not far off from retirement strode toward them. He was a fit guy, obviously lifted weights to keep in shape. His bushy salt-and-pepper beard matched the stylish cut of hair on his head. When they’d first been introduced, he’d worn a three-piece suit. Now his white dress shirt was rolled up at the sleeves. The firm set of his mouth wasn’t a good sign.

“We’ve found your truck and trailer,” the detective said, stopping next to Maisie.

She rose on shaky legs. Hayes followed suit, sliding an arm around her back, bringing her close, as she asked, “Where?”

Detective Stewart said, “In a rural area, about five miles from here.”

“Thank God,” Maisie breathed. “Can we go get it?”

The detective shifted on his feet as he lifted his phone and unlocked it. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news on that front.”

He handed Maisie the phone. She narrowed her eyes on the screen, and Hayes leaned in, realizing exactly what he saw. Maisie, with an untrained eye for examining burnt metal, asked, “What exactly am I looking at?”

Detective Stewart said, “Your trailer, I’m afraid. That’s all that’s left of it.”

Maisie’s shoulders curled forward, caving into her chest.

The detective added to Hayes, “Your truck is the next photo. It’s no better. They were found at a local junkyard.”

With a shaky hand, Maisie lifted the phone to Hayes for him to look. Hayes handed it back to the detective, not caring about his goddamn truck at the moment. He gathered a trembling Maisie into his arms. His vision tunneled. “Thank you for the update,” Hayes said to the detective. “Can you give us a few minutes?”

“Of course,” the detective said with a soft, sad smile and then strode away.

Maisie’s fingers locked onto Hayes’s T-shirt. “That’s it. It’s over. I failed.” Her voice was quiet, too quiet. Her complexion sickly. “All because I decided we needed fun. I fucked this up, like I always do. Clara and Amelia will never forgive me.”

“They will forgive you,” Hayes countered. “They love you, and this was absolutely not your fault.”

No, this was his fault. He should have kept them on track for the event. That was his fucking job. Maisie needed his stability. That’s why he was there with her, even if she never outright said it. Hayes understood pure rage. He’d tasted the bitterness of it for years, and that same dark ugliness flickered through him again. “It’s going to be all right.” His chin rested on top of her head, the image of the burnt-out trailer filling his mind. “We’ll figure this out.”

“There’s nothing to figure out,” she said harshly, and met him with a hard stare. “It’s done. It’s over. Please call Beckett to come get us.” The coldness of her voice hit him before she strode away with heavy steps.

Hayes reeled from the shadows in her eyes. The lack of life there. The brightness that those criminals stole away.

Someone would pay.

9

The farmhouse had always been Maisie’s favorite place, the one spot where nothing could ever touch her, where everything felt safe. Until tonight. Clara and Amelia sat around the kitchen table in their pajamas, hair up in matching messy buns. For as long as Maisie could remember, she’d always been the outsider, the one different from her sisters. When they shopped together, Maisie painted. When they watched chick flicks, Maisie snuggled up with a good book. After Laurel, she felt that gap between her and her sisters close. But now, she felt a world away from them again. The silent heaviness in the room made each breath that passed through Maisie’s lips feel more and more strangled. The only light came from the hanging fixture above the kitchen table. Upstairs, Mason had been asleep for hours, the steady clicking of the grandfather clock in the hallway a constant tick grating on Maisie’s last nerve.

After Beckett had picked them up at the police station, the drive home had been equally as silent. The only words exchanged had been when Hayes walked her to her front door, took her in his arms and hugged her tight. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.

When Maisie walked through her front door, she met Clara’s frown and Amelia’s sad eyes.

Both remained looking that way as they sat across from her at the table. When the silence became daunting, Maisie played with the dried, crispy leaves of wilting flowers in the vase. The dead leaves crumbled between her fingers. Her heart felt just like that. “I’m sorry.”

“This isn’t your fault,” Amelia said softly, taking Maisie’s hand across the table.