Page 11 of Knox Unleashed
“Morning,” I say from behind the desk.
The first guy—the taller of the two, dressed in a sleeveless plaid shirt, jeans, and a ball cap—tips his head in my direction. The other man—stockier, in an old concert tee and cargo shorts—doesn’t acknowledge my greeting.
Must be from a big city, because someone from a small town like this would at least smile in response.
They don’t stop to browse or even glance around the store; instead, they head straight for the desk. Strangers don’t generally make me feel unsafe, but there’s something about these two that makes me look over to where Leo has appeared with a mop and bucket out on the deck. He’s wearing his headphones, his back to the store.
“You Maren, the one who runs this place?” the taller one asks. His tone isn’t friendly, but it isn’t openly hostile either.
But the sound of my name on his lips feels…wrong.
“You talked to a guy named Jonathan Paltrow,” the shorter one says. “About six weeks ago, maybe eight.”
I try to keep my expression neutral. “I speak to a lot of customers. I don’t know one called Jonathan Paltrow.”
The taller one steps forward and rests both palms on the counter. “He’d have been asking the whereabouts of a biker called Jackal. Said you told him where he went.”
I think fast. I haven’t told a soul where Jackal is. Obviously I know, because a couple of months ago, I asked his old landlord, Tony Lewis, for an address to send information about a boat Jackal once said he’d buy if it ever came up for sale, and it has. Tony now runs the property as a vacation rental, and I know Jackal has stayed there sometimes. Maybe I should give Tony a heads up that people are asking for Jackal.
But I don’t talk to anyone. Don’t even have a best friend I could have mentioned it to.
Jackal was always decent when he came into the store. He knew who I was—at least, who my father was—but he didn’t let it cloud his judgment like some of the others do.
“We haven’t heard from him since he left,” the shorter man says. “And seeing as you were the last person to see him alive, to the best of our knowledge, you need to tell us where he went.”
The words settle in my stomach like rocks.
I study the two men carefully. While their build is different, they have the same sharp jawline and narrow eyes that focus directly on me. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re related to each other somehow. Brothers, maybe.
“I don’t know who Jonathan Paltrow is,” I say evenly. “His name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“You expect us to believe that? Because he was quite clear. He got Jackal’s address from the woman who runs the bait store.”
I feel the old instinct to explain and smooth things over. It’s a reflex that’s been carved into me from years of trying not to set my father off, to avoid his long diatribes about truth and honor.
But I bury the urge deep.
“Look, I run a bait and marine supplies shop. You want an airboat tour, I can book you on one. But I don’t track grown men.”
The bell above the door rings again before either man can respond.
Ridge steps in first, sunglasses still on despite the dim interior, and I’ve never been more relieved to see an Iron Outlaws leather cut in my life. Sunny follows him in half a step behind. For many of the bikers, my identity as Caldwell’s daughter doesn’t matter when I own the only bait shop in town. The two of them often come in for live bait before they go fishing for the day. And while they rarely speak to me, I’d like to believe they’d help me if this turned into trouble.
Sunny sizes up the two men for a moment before he follows Ridge to the coolers like other customers do.
I glance back to the two strangers.
“You’re running low on ice,” Ridge shouts from the freezer.
The taller stranger glances at the cut on Ridge’s back, and there’s a momentary flicker of recognition.
Makes me wonder if Jonathan Paltrow is a biker.
“Be with you in a second,” I reply. Then, I turn back to the two men and drop my voice back to a whisper, schooling my face so they can’t tell what I’m about to say is a partial lie. “I don’t know Jackal. I don’t know where he is. And I don’t know the man you’re asking about.”
The shorter man looks over to the bikers, then back to me. “You’re protecting them.”
“I’m not protecting anyone. I’m selling bait. Now, if we’re done here…”
