Page 131 of Flint’s Strike

Five minutes later, the vanity has to come out again because no one bothered to level it before bolting it to the wall. Eliot stills, his body tensing briefly before he chuckles, almost to himself.

“A few months after Zack started, we got new lockers,” he says, his voice rough. “The kid was actually pretty good with power tools, so our captain said he could install them.”

His eyes unfocus. He’s not here with me anymore. He’s ten miles and seven years away.

“He didn’t level ‘em.” A smile tugs at his lips. “Half the doors wouldn’t close unless you lifted and shoved them at the same time. One was so bad, we took it off completely and turned that locker into a first aid station.”

I laugh softly. “Did he try to fix it?”

Eliot’s smile deepens, and he meets my gaze. “For about an hour. Then he decided opening those doors counted as a training exercise.”

On TV, the host sets a level on the vanity, gives it a nod, and tells the contractors to bolt it down. Eliot presses a kiss to my hair. “The other night? I’m glad you asked about him.”

I swallow over the lump in my throat. “I’m glad you told me.”

The credits roll. Eliot gets to his feet with a wince, stretches gingerly, then offers me his hand. “Want to get naked?”

My laugh is loud enough to shock me. “I was fixin’ to ask you the same thing.”

I turn off the television and lay my fingers in his palm. “You know the way, hot stuff.”

“Christ. I’m never gonna live that down. Nate sent me three messages about his spreadsheet today and signed them all ‘Pookie.’”

“In his defense, you started it.”

Eliot chuckles. “Fair.” His hand tightens around mine, and we leave the rest of the world behind us for a while.

Chapter Fifty-Three

Parker

Leanna calls a little after eight as we’re reviewing the very meager evidence we collected at the cabin yesterday.

“Captain Elmore, Judge Nesbitt reviewed the additional documentation you submitted yesterday, and signed the two outstanding warrants late last night. I’m emailing you the scans now. The judge is out today, but I’ll be in the office until four p.m. if you’d like to stop by and pick up the paper copies,” she says.

“Thank you.” I try to keep my voice even, but we’ve hit a wall. Todd told us everything he knew and the only inspectors tied to the deficient buildings are Charlie Kessler and Roger Haight. Roger was cremated over a year ago, and Kessler is nowhere to be found.

“You’re welcome, Captain. She wanted me to pass along a message, though. ‘Tell your partner his constant sarcasm is not appreciated.’”

“Noted.” I end the call with zero intention of saying a word to Nate. He’s the best partner I’ve ever worked with, and I’m not about to ask him to change for anyone.

“Well? Is this a celebration coffee or am I drowning my sorrows in it?” he asks.

“It’s a coffee you’re gonna drink in the car. We need to pay a visit to Dale Pruitt.”

He scowls. “I’m not risking my upholstery by wedging a ceramic mug into the console. And neither are you.” He drains the cup in four swallows, and sets it aside.

“I hope you didn’t need the lining of your esophagus for anything.”

“Coffee hasn’t hurt me yet. Grab the good stapler and let’s go.”

I don’t know what that means or why we’d need any stapler, but some questions are better left unanswered.

Dale Pruitt’s office sits in the center of a strip mall off South Lamar, wedged between a nail salon and a vacuum repair place. Pruitt Registered Agent Services stretches across the window in what might have, at one time, been gold lettering, but now looks more like a muted mustard yellow. A bell over the door announces our arrival to a thoroughly depressing reception area. The coffee pot has a thick layer of sludge in the bottom, and the seating is nothing more than three folding chairs.

“Can I help you?” A deep voice echoes from the hall, followed three seconds later by its owner.

Mid-fifties, salt and pepper hair, wearing an Austin Golf Club polo shirt that strains over his belly, he’s still staring at his phone.