I dropped the bags and turned. I didn’t have a plan and I’m not sure what I would have done, but even in a flash of anger I couldn’t miss Peter’s six-foot-four frame looming up behind us or the unmarked police car pulling into the parking lot.

Pisto wasn’t as preoccupied as I was. She grabbed my hand as I raised it from my side. “I’m not taken in by you,” she murmured. “You may have Zery conned, but not me.”

A fan. How nice.

I wanted more than anything to knee her in the groin…thigh…whatever I could reach, or suck in a big lungful of air and blow her back to northern Illinois, but with my growing audience, neither was an option.

“There a problem?” Detective Reynolds and friend stepped onto the sidewalk. His tone was casual, but I could see the tension in his body.

Pisto tensed, a small move that no one but I noticed. “You knew we had company, right? A well-trained warrior like you wouldn’t slip like that…” I murmured the words, for her alone.

She pulled back her lip, showing her teeth. From a distance, it might have looked like a smile. Up close there was no missing the threat.

I pulled my wrist from her grip. “No problem.” I turned my back on the Amazon. I didn’t want to introduce her to the detective and hoped she’d be too dense to realize that’s what he was. Pretending she wasn’t glowering at my back, I moved forward, as far as the basement steps. “We can go in this way.” I motioned to the stairs. I wanted Detective and friend inside my shop, hidden from the Amazons as quickly as possible.

Reynolds arched a brow. “Aren’t you in the middle of something?” He glanced behind me. I followed his line of sight, hoping he wasn’t referring to Pisto. He wasn’t. The Amazon was gone, and his gaze was only directed to the duffels I’d left on the sidewalk.

Peter stepped forward and scooped them up. “I’ll get them.”

I looked back at the detective. He wandered forward, but his partner hung back.

“You can both come,” I prompted.

Reynolds looked behind him as if surprised to see someone there. “Blake’s not feeling well. He needs some air.” Then he glanced at Peter.

I was done with introductions. I turned on the ball of my foot and tramped down the stairs. I could hear Reynolds tap his hand against the metal railing a few times, as if deciding whether to follow-or maybe it was some secret police signal. Whatever, in a little while he stepped through the basement door behind me.

Bubbe’s door was wide open. I tried sidling past, but Reynolds came to an immediate halt next to it.

“What’s this?” he asked.

I stopped, turned, and immediately hoped Bubbe hadn’t left any wild woodland critters tied to the table.

The detective had half his body in the room. I walked over and pulled the door closed. He had the good grace to step back before it whacked him in the nose. “My grandmother’s business.”

He raised both brows in question.

“She tells fortunes.” I didn’t wait for a reply, just started walking.

I lost him outside Mother’s workout room.

“Some pretty heavy duty equipment you have there.” This time he was all the way in. I’d have had to put him in a headlock to get him out gracefully.

I ground my teeth together at the sheer annoyance of having him control our progress, but then realized something. As long as Bubbe didn’t stroll past, Mother’s workspace was probably the safest place for our chat.

He glanced around, apparently realizing I didn’t have a bowie knife tucked under a stack of weights, and turned to leave. I, however, had already plopped myself down on a weight bench.

“So, did you find another body?” The thought had just occurred to me. I didn’t really think he had-he would have approached me differently, but a piece of me almost hoped he had. Not that I wished another girl dead, but I definitely wanted to believe the killer had severed whatever tie he or she felt to me.

“Should we have?”

I pulled back, too surprised to hide my reaction. “That was aggressive.”

He took a step forward. “You haven’t seen aggressive.”

I almost laughed. I could say the same thing to him.

“Is something funny?”

I could see I’d tripped his trigger. I had to get better at hiding my expressions. I stood up. “No. Nothing about this is funny, especially the fact that you seem to suspect me of killing two girls. I told you before. I didn’t do it.”

“I never accused you of being the killer.”

I made a pfft sound with my lips.

“If anything, I accused you of knowing something about the girls, of doing their tattoos.”

“Well, I didn’t.” As far as I was concerned, our talk was over-or should have been. He wandered farther into the room, picked up a medicine ball, and tossed it in the air as if testing its weight.

“So, why were you at The Tavern?”

“Lunch? How about you?”

He smiled, a not-so-sweet stop bullshitting me turn of his lips. “It had nothing to do with the dead girls?”

“I like fried cheese curds.”

He laughed. “And I like brats with mustard. You didn’t answer my question.”

I hated to lie, but I’d served my time as a teenager-I knew how. “No. It had nothing to do with the dead girls.” I held his gaze, didn’t let mine waver, even when he took a step back toward me. Less than a foot away, he stopped and smiled again.

“You’re good.”

He was in my space. My heart rate sped up a few beats. Our verbal sparring was a strange turn-on. He smelled of cinnamon again and some kind of soap. The mixture was bizarrely alluring.

“I’d be happy to set you up with an appointment. I should have time later today.”

He blinked, obviously not following my response.

“A tattoo? You were complimenting my skill…”

He grinned, a real grin, and for a second I thought he was going to reach out and touch me.

“Alan, you in there?” his partner’s voice called from the main part of the basement.

Reynolds didn’t reply at first, just kept his gaze on me. Then with a chuckle he said, “You are good.” He moved toward the door. “Here,” he called.

I wasn’t sure what had happened, if he suspected me more or less, but I did know I was happy to see him go. Somewhere along the way, I’d lost control of the conversation-not that he’d had it.

We were both walking away from this exchange unfulfilled.

I waited for Detective Reynolds to let himself out the door we’d entered through, then took the front steps toward the main entrance-the steps to my shop. I got as far as the landing before the sound of shouting stopped me.

Outside, I had to go around the far side of my shop, the side away from the gym/cafeteria, to see what was going on.

Dana and Pisto stood a few feet away from each other, both of their faces taut with anger.

“It’s my life.” Dana reached for one of many duffel bags that lay scattered over the leaf-strewn ground. Pisto grabbed her by the arm, jerking her back to a stand.

I moved forward, but the two were too caught up in their argument to notice me. There was a growl, and the dog I’d befriended a few days earlier shot from behind me. He launched himself at Pisto, knocking into her side. Without missing a beat, the warrior swung, but the animal’s teeth were sunk into the loose-fitting sweatshirt she wore.

He hit the ground, but Pisto did too, or almost did. She landed in a semicrouch; one hand kept her from falling completely. All four legs firmly placed on the dirt, the dog pressed his advantage, began pulling at the shirt, snarling as he did.

With her free hand, Pisto grabbed a duffel and flung it at the animal. He dropped lower. The bag sailed over his back.

Dana stood to the side, her hands shaking and her eyes dancing in her face.

I looked around for a weapon. I didn’t care for the warrior and certainly didn’t like the way she’d been treating Dana, but I couldn’t stand by and see her bitten. My gaze lit on the water spigot that jutted out of the side of the building. I’d unhooked the hose weeks earlier, but I could work with the water.