Spitfire in Love (Chasing Red 3)

I gave my motorcycle a regretful we’ll-survive-this-buddy pat on the side.

Suddenly, the shadiness of it all hit me like a freight train. I had no idea who this woman was, what she was capable of. She asked me to come to her shop early in the morning, when no one would be there…

I looked around again. The structure reminded me of the abandoned places where serial killers take their victims to torture them.

Damn Caleb, making me watch all those scary movies. Now I had them in my head.

Why are you here?

Even as I asked myself this, I was already looking for a place to park and hide my motorcycle safely.

Hey, it’s your funeral.

There were at least ten cars parked out front. They were either already repaired and waiting to be picked up or still due for repair. That meant they had customers.

Unless those were the cars of their victims.

On the right side of the building where the dirt road was, someone had parked a big tandem truck to block the way just enough so a vehicle couldn’t pass through.

What were they hiding out there?

More dead bodies, possibly.

But as I reached the dirt road, I saw that there was still a good amount of land behind the shop. Thirty feet away from the shop was a tiny, yellow barn house with pale-blue trim. A toolshed stood beside it. They were in considerably better shape than the shop and made a pretty picture among the pine and poplar trees scattered around the edges of the property.

Was that where she lived?

I scanned the place, looking for her, but there wasn’t a soul around. A quick glance on my phone told me it was 8:15 and that I was stupid for being early—too early. Before the shop even opened.

Why are you here?

I sandwiched my motorcycle between the building and the tandem truck, making it hard for anyone to spot it. It looked like it would be safe there. I walked to the edge of the building, then I looked up.

And my heart staggered at the sight of her.

She was coming out of the yellow house and seemed to be having trouble closing the door. She opened it again with a swift kick of her foot, then pulled it closed with considerable muscle and force.

She looked like she’d just gotten out of bed, put on her necessary outerwear, and marched out of the house.

She was still in her pajamas, boots the color of Pepto-Bismol, and a black parka with a hoodie that drowned her body.

She was sniffing from the cold, pushing up the huge eyeglasses that she hadn’t been wearing last night. Her t

hick hair was a nest on top of her head, with pieces of it escaping.

She looked grumpy.

Why are you here?

Wasn’t it obvious?

I was here because of her.

Something was not right with me.

I needed coffee. Coffee would zap me back to reality.

I watched as she headed to the back of the shop, where there must be another entrance. I wasn’t in her line of sight, although if she looked slightly to her left, she would see me. But her steps were purposeful, her gaze straight.