fast.
“Thanks.” He released her hand, taking a deliberate step back. He didn’t want to give her the wrong impression. Asinterested as he was, he wasn’t the man for her, not now. Not while still battling his guilt, his past, and his mistakes. “Let’s get that bulb swapped.”
She looked half-disappointed at his pulling back but nodded and followed him back out to the entry, Winston padding behind them.
A towel in hand, Griffin bent to examine the busted bulb, and his gaze tracked upward, landing on something far more dangerous.
Avery watched as Parker unlocked the tall black door wedged like a slit in the brick side of an old cannery warehouse along the docks of Canton.
A merchant ship sat moored on the left side of the building and a trawler on the right. Avery glanced up at the brick front with Harrison painted in fading white letters. Other than a small light shining from the third-floor window, the place was dark.
What had she gotten herself into?
She’d been asking herself that ever since she’d answered Parker’s ad for a crime-scene photographer, never expecting him to actually hire her. She’d been desperate to pay her bills and remain behind a camera lens, and so she’d gone for it. Much to her shock, he’d hired her after a few moments’ questioning and since then continued to walk her through each step of crime-scene photography with patience few people possessed. But she still didn’t understand why.
He was one of the best in his field and surely had plenty of other applicants. Far more experienced applicants.
Who was she kidding? She had zero crime-scene experience. Before this gig, her only dalliance with crime photography came purely by accident when she’d stumbled upon State Senator Mulroney attempting to rape a woman in the back room at a gallery showing. Fortunately, she’d just retrieved her camera at the request of one of Annapolis’s upper crust eager to see a sampling of her recent work—still loaded on the Canon.
Her quick response of snapping off a few shots of the situation before calling for help substantiated the assaulted women’s claim over the hometown hero’s vehement denials. It’d cost her the business she’d worked so hard to build, right as it had begunto launch. Mulroney’s well-connected society wife had seen to that. But Parker, a renowned albeit unconventional investigator, had taken pity on her. She still couldn’t figure out why. What was his end game? Everybody had one.
Parker opened the door and flipped a switch illuminating a metal cage freight elevator.
Lifting the grate, he gestured for her to step inside. He turned and bolted the front door before joining her in the metal box masquerading as an elevator.
He pulled a lever, and the gears, visible on the right, churned to life. Up what she guessed were two levels—it was difficult to tell in the dark—the elevator shook to a stop and what she could only assume was a motion-sensor light flashed on, revealing a small platform. An oversize grey metal door stood on the other side.
“You aren’t some sort of serial killer, are you?” she said, trying to ease the knot in her belly with a really bad joke.
He stepped out of the elevator and extended his hand to help her. “If I were, I’d have the perfect cover, wouldn’t I?”
She took his hand and stepped off the elevator, thinking the very same thing. But he was just trying to get a rise out of her.
He entered a security code into the panel beside the door and it slid open.
“Fancy.”
“Modern conveniences.”
“In an old cannery warehouse?”
He shrugged. “I suppose you could say I have somewhat eclectic tastes.”
That much she was aware of. Fruit she’d never heard of—star something or other—Nat King Cole records— actual records —and a Triumph motorcycle. His tastes were most definitely eclectic.
“Make yourself at home,” he said, strolling inside.
Wow . Floor-to-ceiling windows ran the length of the
“Thanks.” He released her hand, taking a deliberate step back. He didn’t want to give her the wrong impression. Asinterested as he was, he wasn’t the man for her, not now. Not while still battling his guilt, his past, and his mistakes. “Let’s get that bulb swapped.”
She looked half-disappointed at his pulling back but nodded and followed him back out to the entry, Winston padding behind them.
A towel in hand, Griffin bent to examine the busted bulb, and his gaze tracked upward, landing on something far more dangerous.
Avery watched as Parker unlocked the tall black door wedged like a slit in the brick side of an old cannery warehouse along the docks of Canton.
A merchant ship sat moored on the left side of the building and a trawler on the right. Avery glanced up at the brick front with Harrison painted in fading white letters. Other than a small light shining from the third-floor window, the place was dark.
What had she gotten herself into?
She’d been asking herself that ever since she’d answered Parker’s ad for a crime-scene photographer, never expecting him to actually hire her. She’d been desperate to pay her bills and remain behind a camera lens, and so she’d gone for it. Much to her shock, he’d hired her after a few moments’ questioning and since then continued to walk her through each step of crime-scene photography with patience few people possessed. But she still didn’t understand why.
He was one of the best in his field and surely had plenty of other applicants. Far more experienced applicants.
Who was she kidding? She had zero crime-scene experience. Before this gig, her only dalliance with crime photography came purely by accident when she’d stumbled upon State Senator Mulroney attempting to rape a woman in the back room at a gallery showing. Fortunately, she’d just retrieved her camera at the request of one of Annapolis’s upper crust eager to see a sampling of her recent work—still loaded on the Canon.
Her quick response of snapping off a few shots of the situation before calling for help substantiated the assaulted women’s claim over the hometown hero’s vehement denials. It’d cost her the business she’d worked so hard to build, right as it had begunto launch. Mulroney’s well-connected society wife had seen to that. But Parker, a renowned albeit unconventional investigator, had taken pity on her. She still couldn’t figure out why. What was his end game? Everybody had one.
Parker opened the door and flipped a switch illuminating a metal cage freight elevator.
Lifting the grate, he gestured for her to step inside. He turned and bolted the front door before joining her in the metal box masquerading as an elevator.
He pulled a lever, and the gears, visible on the right, churned to life. Up what she guessed were two levels—it was difficult to tell in the dark—the elevator shook to a stop and what she could only assume was a motion-sensor light flashed on, revealing a small platform. An oversize grey metal door stood on the other side.
“You aren’t some sort of serial killer, are you?” she said, trying to ease the knot in her belly with a really bad joke.
He stepped out of the elevator and extended his hand to help her. “If I were, I’d have the perfect cover, wouldn’t I?”
She took his hand and stepped off the elevator, thinking the very same thing. But he was just trying to get a rise out of her.
He entered a security code into the panel beside the door and it slid open.
“Fancy.”
“Modern conveniences.”
“In an old cannery warehouse?”
He shrugged. “I suppose you could say I have somewhat eclectic tastes.”
That much she was aware of. Fruit she’d never heard of—star something or other—Nat King Cole records— actual records —and a Triumph motorcycle. His tastes were most definitely eclectic.
“Make yourself at home,” he said, strolling inside.
Wow . Floor-to-ceiling windows ran the length of the
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