Free Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel by Irene Hannon Page A

couldn’t understand how she could be living the high life with Dad just dead. I knew she loved him, so it didn’t make sense to me.”
    Again, Laura paused, and he heard her take a deep breath. “But as time passed, I realized the spending spree was her way of grieving. She immersed herself in things and experiences until the pain of loss had dulled enough for her to face it. She’d loved my dad since she was fifteen, and his death devastated her, as it did me. She just expressed her grief in a different way. In the end, we mended our fences, but after life with Mom, I craved order and predictability.”
    “Which you created—and Darcy disrupted.”
    Another sigh from her dark corner. “Yes. Darcy inherited Mom’s spontaneity and sense of adventure, which might explain why we’ve clashed since she arrived. But I like to think I’ve learned a few things through the years and that we could make this work if we both tried. Not that present circumstances would suggest that, however.”
    Once more temptation reared its ugly head, and he fought the urge to reach over, cover her tightly laced fingers with his, and reassure her she’d done her best. Because somehow he knew she had.
    Instead, he kept his hands on the wheel and settled for more general words of encouragement. “Maybe she’ll learn a thing or two from this experience that will help her understand why living with you is a better alternative—and give her an incentive to do her part to improve the situation at home.”
    “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” She burrowed deeper into her coat. “Sorry to dump my life history on you. It was probably way more than you wanted to know when you asked why I became a librarian.”
    “You can never have too much information when you’re working a case. Every piece of background helps.” True, but not the reason for his interest this time. His motives were far less professional in nature.
    A fact he did not intend to share.
    “I guess that makes sense.” Her tone cooled from personal to polite, breaking the tête-à-tête mood. “You’re very adept at building trust and extracting information. I imagine that skill serves you well in your field. So tell me about Phoenix. The website is rather bare bones.”
    He missed the intimate warmth in her voice—but it was better to keep things professional.
    Taking the out she gave him, he moved to safer ground. He told her how Cal had gotten the idea for the PI firm five years ago and recruited him as a partner. How Connor had joined them a few months later. How they handled a lot of insurance fraud work but also took on missing persons jobs, protection gigs, murders, and cold cases.
    He answered her questions about the name—no, it had nothing to do with the city and everything to do with rising from the ashes. Although he cited the murder of Cal’s first wife as the reason his partner needed to start over, he left his own situation out of it. And he talked about their motto; of their commitment to putting justice first in every investigation, and of their dedication to taking cases that had fallen between the cracks with official law enforcement.
    By the time he regaled her with stories about a few of their more interesting cases—names withheld to protect the innocent . . . or guilty—he was cresting the formidable hill on her street that led to her house.
    Exactly how he’d timed it.
    “So here you are, safe and sound—as promised.” He eased the SUV close to where he thought the curb might be, but in view of the lack of traffic, he could have parked it in the middle of the street for all it mattered.
    She released her seat belt and wrapped her scarf back around her neck. “Sorry this trip kept you out so late.”
    “PIs don’t punch time clocks. Believe me, I’ve burned plenty of midnight oil on surveillance gigs. Sit tight and I’ll get your door.”
    He didn’t wait for her to respond. Pushing his door open, he plunged back into the biting,