“No.”
“I’d have gotten grounded.”
“Did you get grounded a lot?” Jamison asked.
Ian huffed a laugh. “A lot.”
That made the kid smile. And damn if he didn’t look just like his mother.
Ian pulled his cell from his back pocket to check the time, then called the mine’s office to see if anyone had an ETA on Baulder. He got a recording and hung up without leaving a message. Didn’t look like he was going to be interviewing for the mine today.
He texted his new boss, Roman. Baulder’s a no-show.
All the men at the power table stood to leave. Ian meditated into his coffee as the sheriff said goodbye to his son and took another shot at Ian with “Don’t get lost in those drifts, now.”
Then Bishop called toward Savannah, who was taking an order from an elderly man at the bar. “Have him ready to go,” he ordered. “I’ll be home round seven.”
Savannah never looked away from her customer. Never broke stride in her conversation. But Ian would bet it raked along her nerves the same way it raked along his.
Shake it off.
She was not his concern. His mission centered around uncovering a counterfeiter and a murderer. This time around, he’d have to leave the bully—and the bullied—to their own problems.
When the café door closed behind the men, Jamison looked at Ian. “Do you know what drifts are?”
“No. What are they?”
“The tunnels,” Jamison told him. “Is that what happened to Mason? Did he get lost down there?”
No. Mason had been found—found out.
Ian didn’t plan on answering, but Jamison stared, imploring a response with those frightened eyes. The kid was like a baby bird pushed out of the nest, and Ian just couldn’t leave him there to flail.
“I don’t know, buddy,” he lied again. “How old are you?”
“Five and a half.” Jamison returned his gaze to the paper but just rolled the crayon between his fingers.
Ian finished his coffee and pulled out his wallet to pay. Movement just outside the front doors caught his eye. A car that had been parked at the curb when he arrived slowly rolled forward. By the time he realized there was no driver, the sight of another car’s front bumper came into view.
“What the…?” Ian murmured, trying to understand the bumper-car derby beyond the window. He stood, frowning as the second car stopped directly in front of the café’s front glass doors—a Hazard County Sheriff’s Department vehicle.
“Savannah?” The second waitress—a Misty Klein, according to the mission file—called toward the dining room, and her voice rang with we-have-a-problem tension.
Savannah looked at Misty and followed her friend’s gaze out the doors. Her arms dropped to her sides. Her face crushed into a frown. Her jaw unhinged. “What in the…?”
Ian glanced back to the doors as a deputy stepped from the cruiser.
Savannah marched to the entrance, ripped a random jacket off the hooks from the many hanging there, threw it around her shoulders, and swung one front door open.
“Mom?” Jamison sat up straight.
She shot a stern glance over her shoulder. “Stay inside.”
Then she stepped out and walked to the curb, one rigid finger swinging from her car to the cruiser to the deputy.
“Mom?” The boy turned on the stool, looking out the door.
Ian put a hand on his shoulder. “Your mom’s got things under control.”