A Bad Day for Sunshine (Sunshine Vicram #1) - Darynda Jones Page 0,125
Quincy said, ever the wordsmith.
“I saw the looks they gave him, Marshal. It wouldn’t have ended well had he tried to intervene.”
“Are you saying he’s an upstanding citizen and we should just let him go because he’s a good guy?”
“No. I’m saying, when you do find him, try to give him a chance to turn himself in.” After all, Darlene Tapia wouldn’t help anyone she knew was a danger to society. Sun would bet her last shiny nickel on that.
“What do you think is going to happen? Do you think I’m going to gun him down in the street?”
She grinned, letting the appreciation she felt for him show. “No, I do not, Marshal Deleon. That’s not your style.”
He grinned back. “I’m glad you noticed.”
“So,” Quincy said, shifting in his chair, “the sib and I are going to interview Mrs. Usury. She owns the land the well house is on.”
Sun blinked at him, his words—or more importantly word—sinking in. Sometimes, when a piece of the puzzle fell into place, a jolt of electricity rocketed through her body. Not always, but that rush of adrenaline, that high, was quite addictive.
Her gaze darted between them, then she asked, “What did you just say?”
Quincy shrugged. “We’re going to interview Mrs. Usury.”
Sun closed her eyes. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe . . . she didn’t know, maybe it was just a word. Just a nickname. Maybe Syb meant nothing.
“What’s going on?” Zee asked.
It was so thin, so far-fetched, she didn’t want to say it out loud for fear it would disintegrate and drift away. But the dimples, for lack of a better term, on Sybil’s temples matched another set she’d seen recently for the first time in her life. And she didn’t believe in coincidences.
She grabbed her jacket and said to them, “Meet me at the urgent care center.”
“Was it something I said?” Quincy asked, scrambling after her.
She skidded to a halt at the door. Quincy and Zee, who’d been hurrying to keep up, almost plowed into her.
She turned to them, her mind racing with all the fragments she’d missed, all the clues that were right there in front of her. She’d just never put them together.
But even now . . . she had to know for certain before she started pointing fingers and making accusations. Then again, what if something bizarre happened and she died in an accident on the way to the urgent care center or she had an aneurysm or the zombie apocalypse was nigher than anyone had imagined.
She took out her notepad, wrote two words onto a slip of paper, and stuffed it into Quincy’s front pocket. “Do not look at this unless I die unexpectedly.”
“Really?” he said, unimpressed. “This again?”
He had a point. She used to pull the very same antics in school, whenever she suspected someone of wrongdoing but didn’t want to call them out in case she was wrong. But back then, it was more of an insurance thing. That way, if she were wrong, no one would be the wiser. But when she was proven right, she could gloat that she’d figured it out first. Win-win.
Maybe she had been destined for a career in law enforcement, after all.
Holding up a finger over her lips, she said, “Complete radio silence.”
They nodded, and she sprinted to her cruiser.
“Marianna,” Sun said, running up to Sybil’s mom as she swiped her card at a vending machine.
Before she found Mari, she’d ordered Quincy and Zee to join the guard and Deputy Salazar at Sybil’s room, telling them to allow no one, absolutely no one, entrance until she got there. Then she went in search of Marianna St. Aubin.
The woman’s face showed signs of severe stress, and when Sun ran up to her like a shopping addict during a fire sale, she thought the poor thing would faint.
“I’m sorry,” Sun said, holding up her hands in surrender. “Everything’s okay. I just have a couple of questions.”
Mari put a hand over her heart while Sun scanned the small snack area that had been decorated to look like a piazza in Italy. Absolutely charming.
“How is Sybil doing?” she asked in the name of social niceties.
“I just checked in on her. She’s asleep.”
“Good. Good.” She led Mari to a small table and had her sit. “I have what could be considered a very delicate question to ask you.”
She laced her fingers around the soda can she’d been drinking from. “All right.”
“Does your husband have any children from another marriage?”