That’s how I find myself getting out of the cab in front of a pub-style restaurant while the driver is still rattling on about that damn blue-cheese dressing.
The Fox’s Den.
It’s written in gold, curly letters above windows with what look like velvet curtains partially drawn. The restaurant front is painted a sleek black. The bistro tables outside are full, and when I step inside, it’s just as packed.Looks like there are a lot of blue-cheese lovers out there.
It has the same classic, rustic appeal of an old pub with a thick, wooden bar being the main feature, polished but still well worn. The tiered shelves of liquor bottles behind the bar seem to be lit up from the bottom to create a rainbow glow. And behind that is a gold-framed mirror.
That’s where the decadence begins. Instead of flyers and concert bills pegged to the walls, several original,gorgeouspaintings are hung. The paintings are abstract but elicit the feeling of a wooden countryside, the type of place a fox might make her den.
There is a waiting area with red-leather benches, which is where the hostess directs me to wait for a table. I sit, feeling overwhelmed and underdressed. It’s not that people are dressed up per se, but they look like the kind of people that wash all their fruit as soon as they get home from the grocer and buy toilet paper before they’re down to the last roll. In short, the kind of people who have their lives together.
Which is certainly not me.
I picked my outfit up off the floor and chose it solely because it passed the sniff test. I showered, but couldn’t be bothered to wash my hair, so it’s up in a sloppy bun—and not the chic kind. I’m wearing rubber slides with socks and thinking more and more that this is a mistake.
Why couldn’t the driver have taken me to a hole-in-the-wall joint with greasy pizza and messy wings?
I’m about to leave when a white man dressed in an all-black suit walks up to the hostess. He leans in to whisper something in her ear and, while doing so, places a hand on her bicep.
As soon as I see it, it’s like being hit by a bus. I am so unsettled and shell-shocked that I stumble back a few steps, as if taking a physical blow.
I am transfixed on the black-and-white fox tattoo staring back at me, the snake still dead as ever dangling from its mouth. I beg my feet to move, but I feel just as paralyzed as I did the first time I saw that exact tattoo.
Frozen. Immobilized.
The hostess laughs at something he—Beth’s killer—says, and it breaks me out of my trance. With every nerve in my body pounding with adrenaline, I walk out briskly. I try to keep my cool until I make it around the corner of the block, but I fail instantly. I sprint down the sidewalk. Rounding the corner, I throw my back against the nearest building. Panting, I look up at the blue sky while my lungs work to restore my breathing.
Only for a moment. Then I’m scouring my bag for the business card Detective Saxon gave me.
Shit. Shit. Shit. This fucking black hole of a bag!
I sweep my hand around frantically before deciding to dump the whole thing out on the sidewalk. I sort through the crumbled receipts, pens, tampons, and miscellaneous junk until I find it. I’m still kneeling on the sidewalk surrounded by the contents of my bag when I call Leo.
The phone rings and I gnaw on my inner cheek.Pick up, pick up, pick up.
“Saxon,” his voice comes through, and my chest deflates in a big, relieved sigh.
“It’s him. I saw him.”
I hold the door open for a cop escorting a handcuffed man, the smell of alcohol coming off him in waves. Surprisingly—or not—the drunk is the only one of the pair to say thank you. I follow behind them, the police station lobby distinctly less busy than the last time I was here. The fluorescent lights and smell of Lysol are the same though.
“Harlow Hargrave to see Detective Saxon,” I say to the female cop apparently on reception duty behind the glass partition. She snaps her gum and picks up the phone, pressing a couple of buttons.
I tap my foot impatiently. Someone answers. I can’t hear them, but she mutters an “mhmm” before hanging up.
“He’ll be right out,” she says flatly, a look of pure boredom on her face. I’m nearly crawling out of my skin with nerves, and she shuffles around papers like she’d rather be anywhere else. If she knew why I am here, I bet she’d be much more enthused.
I fucking found him.
It’s him. I know it is. That tattoo is seared into my memory, haunts me every night, and it belongs to the man in the black suit. His height and build fit too. And apparently his penchant for all black.
A hallway door opens and Leo steps out, quickly scanning the lobby. He’s dressed in a well-fitted pair of navy slacks and a simple, white button-up, and is still devilishly good looking.Shut up,I hiss at the messed-up part of my brain that is pointing out anything remotely sexual about this situation.
“Leo.” I stand and wave. He smiles when he sees me.
“Miss Hargrave, if you’d follow me please.”
“If I’m going to call you Leo, you should probably call me Harlow.” I give him a side glance and a smirk.