The moment the little shit called Troy, who likes to antagonize his new stepmother told that same stepmother that his scooter and helmet were gone, I could feel a grin spread over my face. After feeling slightly guilty for turning down Clyde Pickett’s plea for helping him find his ex and miffed that Dad would not be able to join me for our interview with Matty Ross, the fact the girl had obviously seen me place a tracking device on her car and gave me the slip made my day appear more sunny and light.

I’m weird that way.

So here I am, in the courtyard of the Sea Sprite, having followed the kid on a merry go round of Neptune boardwalk neighborhood.

Psst. Don’t tell this to anyone, but I knew exactly where the girl would end up, but it’s always a hoot making the target think they have the upper hand. As if.

And there is Troy’s scooter, parked against the entrance to one of the rooms on the first floor. And since I have no intention of playing the game Matty obviously wants to play—she chose the wrong playmate for that—I place another tracking device, a much smaller one, under the deck of the seemingly abandoned scooter and peer inside the room.

It looks lived in, the bed is unmade with clothes strewn on it. I try the sliding door, but it’s locked. Of course it is. Miss Ross might be an amateur, but she’s obviously not stupid. Luckily, I always come prepared, hence the lock-picks in my bag.

It’s obvious, this is where Matty is staying. If the obvious disarray screaming of teenage angst isn’t a good indicator, the large photo of the motel owner on the dresser is a dead giveaway. I check the bathroom, just to make sure, but of course the girl isn’t there. As I said, she’s not stupid.

I take a longer, slightly more thorough look around the room. There’s dust on the furniture; she might live in here, but she’s not keen on keeping it clean. A charred remnant of string art leans against the wall by the bed. It must’ve hung in the reception. I squint at it. What’s left of the colors, something blue and yellow, is muted, the middle of the piece blackened, the strings hanging limply from mangled nails, but I think...I circle the bed, yeah, the yellow blob was probably the sun and the blue thing waves. A rather quaint, childlike rendition of an ocean scene out of string and nails hanging in the reception of a motel overlooking the real deal.

Rather ironic.

I shake my head at the carpet sticking out strangely in the corner. It looks like the floorboards underneath aren’t aligned right, but before I can give into the urge to correct the dissonance—Logan’s influence, I’m sure, my man got OCD in the Navy—a noise prompts me to investigate.

The interconnecting door is unlocked, revealing another room, similar to Matty’s, in almost the same state of disarray, but obviously disused. All the further interconnecting doors are open wide, creating a corridor leading to the far wall. All the rooms are empty and there are no more sounds distracting me.

Having arrived to the end of the wing, I open the door leading back onto the deck...And grin at the disappearance of the scooter.

“Well played,” I acknowledge, “but I’m better.”



As always, I have perfect timing.

I come driving around the corner just in time to see Miss Matty Ross run out of Alpha-Jolly Amusements—what is she doing around the Fitzpatricks is currently beyond me. I stop in front of her, tires screeching, and open the door. If she’s not stupid, she’d come in.

“I’ve been looking for you,” I snap, the need to get out of the Fitzpatrick turf gnawing at me.

“Great, you found me!” Matty slides in and slams the door. “No go!”

Unfortunately, the motley crew of Fitzpatricks and company is too fast, cornering us. I’m tempted to turn on the wipers and floor it, happens what happens, but I know it would be pretty iffy claiming self defense. And there’s Liam Fitzpatrick, maniacal grin firmly in place, tapping on my passenger side window with a wrench.

And I so don’t want to be here anymore so I go for my bag. The only way Matty, my car, and I will make it out of here in one piece.

Liam makes to break the glass, leans down and the sight of my gun, hand steady and sure, stops him short. The last time we met like this, it was Logan holding the gun, but unlike that time, now the weapon is loaded.

“Nah-ah,” I say with a joviality I’m far from feeling, stretching my lips into a feral smile. It’s good seeing him rattled, afraid even. “Hey, Liam, long time.” The smile is gone as fast as it appeared. “Back away from the car, would ya?”

His hands are up in surrender. What a pleasant view.

“Okay, okay,” he mutters. Then looks at his cronies. “Let them go. Move! Move!”

Without bothering to stash the gun, I simply floor it.



We’re back in boardwalk territory and Matty is directing me to where she’s parked her car. As if I don’t know where it is. Child, please.

She unbuckles her seat belt. “So, um, thanks.”

I place my hand on her arm to stop her. “Do you have any idea how dangerous those people are that you were messing with?” I’m pissed that she risked it.

She looks unconvinced. “No?”

I want to smack her. You don’t go looking for trouble without making at least basic reconnaissance. “Alpha-Jolly Amusements is owned by Liam Fitzpatrick, leader of the Fitzpatrick family.” She obviously has never heard of them and I feel incredibly old. “There’s fourteen kids. 13 criminals, one priest.”

She shakes her head, still not having a clue. “Those guys chasing me were not all related.”

Like it matters! Jesus, are all kids these days this naïve? It makes me want to grit my teeth when she makes to get out again. “Most of their employees are guys they served time with. There is no telling how many operations are planned out of that place, which is why you should not be wandering around in there.” What would it take for the kid to see reason? Evidence photos? Actual blood and gore? “So why were you?” There’s only one possible reason, really. “You think one of them had something to do with the bomb?”

She tucks her hair behind her ears and nonchalantly opens the car door. “I need to get home. Thanks for the ride.”

If she were my kid, I’d be kicking her ass right about now. How dare she give me lip? “So that was the plan? Just go in there and rattle their cages? See what happens?”

“Maybe.” She actually has the audacity to roll her eyes at me. “I mean, what am I supposed to do? Sit at home? Grieve?”

That’s one thing she could do. Actually process things, instead of going off half-cocked...And who am I to judge? “You could tell the police your theory.”

Matty scoffs. Looks like I’m not the only one not really trusting the cops in getting to the bottom of this thing.

“You could tell me,” I offer.

“Yeah, right,” she deadpans. “Who do you work for?”

“Daniel Maloof, the congressman.”

She’s not impressed. “His little brother was in my dad’s face, demanding a refund when he was trying to check out early.” She shrugs. “If not for him, we might’ve been eating our pizza in Dad’s room. He’d still be alive.” Her disgust is apparent. “But no, the rich kid had to get his deposit so that he could go stay at the Neptune Grand.” She gets out of the car.

“What’s your theory, Matty?” I insist.

She merely closes the car door and leans down to look at me through the window. “Thanks for the rescue.”

She’s already in her car, when I call after her. “You only get one of those!”

She gives me one last look and drives away.

No matter what I say or do is going to keep the kid from stirring shit that she shouldn’t be stirring. It’s clear, she suspects the Fitzpatricks of planting the bomb that killed her father, which wouldn’t be beyond them, I just need to know how she made that connection and keep her from getting herself killed or ruining the case by tampering with possible evidence. Because I know how that feels in the end.

The picture is pretty clear that Matty is on her way of becoming a bitter, vengeful shell of a teenager in agony of not knowing where to focus her rage. And who better to stop her from self-destructing and leading her on the better part than someone who’s been there and done it all before?

Now, if only I could get the two assholes off the hood of my car, I could be on my way. I don’t have the luxury of time on my hands. Revving the engine is no good, so I honk, becoming the recipient of multiple indignant stares.

Since I never was a person who let the judgment of others stop me in my stride or put me down, I merely smile, flip them the bird, drive off and hit the speed dial.

The call connects, but instead of the usual greeting, I hear Dick, “Dude, you gotta use the pilot as your buddy.”

Then Logan’s voice, slightly irritated, “I am a military officer. I should be able to get past these cult weirdos.”

Okay, this sounds too weird even for those two. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Logan finally acknowledges me. “You’re on speaker.”

Yeah, I kinda figured that one all by my lonesome. Yay, me. “Hey, Dick,” I greet as I wait for Logan to set down the game controller and pick up the phone so we can have a normal conversation without his doofus of a buddy listening in.

“Hey, Ronnie,” he croons, then curses. “What the hell, man!” he yells. “I was winning.”

“It’s only paused,” Logan snaps, then calmly says, “You’re not on speaker anymore. What’s up?”

“I talked to Dad.”

“Mhm.”

I roll my eyes. He sure has the knack of turning taciturn and brooding in the most inopportune moments. “He’s coming by later. He needs to talk to you.” A sigh. “About what we discussed last night.”

He echoes my sigh. “Okay, whatever.” He sounds resigned, as if he’s expecting the worst. Silly, silly man.

“Are we still good?” I tentatively ask.

We made love for what felt like hours after our argument last night, but he was gone when I woke up. We haven’t spoken since and I’m on shaky ground trying to judge if the truce last night is just a temporary reprieve—

“Yeah, we’re good.”

I breathe a little easier. “Okay, I’m picking up dinner for tonight. Any particular wishes?”

“You could buy a couple of steaks,” he suggests. “We can grill them when your father comes by.”

‘Your father’ not Keith. He’s still smarting. “Deal.” Then, since I’m smarting, too, and I need it, I add, “I love you.”

I’m not saying it often, it’s more implied than uttered, but sometimes words matter.

“I love you, too,” he says softly.

It feels like a caress, until Dick effectively ruins the moment. “Knock if off you two! You can smooch later, now it’s Far Cry time!”

“I hope that’s a video game.” I frown. Dick is Airbnb-ing his beach house to spring breakers, so where are they? “Wait, where are you two exactly?”

“Dick’s suite,” Logan explains.

“At the Grand?”

“Mhm.”

I grin. I must’ve been born under a lucky star. “Feel like doing me a favor?”

I hear Dick’s maniacal laughter in the background “Aw, suck it!”

“Anything,” comes Logan’s relieved response.

After a few similarly spent afternoons playing video games with Dick, I know just how he feels.