Talk about job commitment. The last janitor tried to kill my best friend Katy, so I already had a general distrust of them. The fact this new one didn't value his weekends didn't buy him any points. It was unnatural.

The janitor finished crossing the hallway, and I stayed in my position to give him time to get further away. My legs screamed in protest the longer I didn't move, but that was better than being janitor road kill. The squeak grew into a barely noticeable whimper, and I counted thirty more seconds before I stood. Now that I had company, I ran past the band room and the gym in a hurry to reach my destination.

They reserved the last three offices in the hall for the top sports coaches-the ones who made money-and the second nameplate had Mr. Torres etched into the metal. Bingo.

I tried the handle, and it stuck. Locked. Sure, why not? Let's not make anything easy around here. The freaking noisy ass wheel came back, and I shook my head. I just had to jinx it. Didn't I?

Okay, I'd fix it the old fashion way. Katy was right about always carrying a lock pick for emergencies. Thankfully, I had mine, and with its help, the door opened in under two minutes. Not my best time but acceptable.

The door swung open with an extra whine because that's just the life I lived, and I slipped inside, closing it behind me. With the janitor here being all responsible, I didn't want to spend too much time looking around, so I attacked the desk. Coach Torres believed in locking doors, but not drawers, allowing me to open each one and paw through the contents. I did it as quietly as possible, but papers were noisy.

Not a single envelope was decorated with cute hearts nor any folded-over school notes to be found. The oddest thing in his desk was the entire bottom drawer of baseballs. Didn't he have a bag to keep them in or something? The single thing on top of the desk was a large desk calendar covering half the surface and three pens in a neat row next to where he obviously stuck his laptop during the work week. Not a single hidden stash area anywhere.

I sighed and slumped in his desk chair, unsure where to search next. There had to be something. Did he burn the notes from Renee, or did they never exist? Not all gossip was real gossip.

Think, Vonnie.

I tapped my head and ran over everything I'd learned about the coach through my search. A nice guy in his late twenties, he reminded me of a typical sports nerd-someone who hung out in a sports bar every weekend. He didn't have bookshelves full of books with secret stashes. Hell, I didn't see even a book in his office. He used the tall bookcase by the door to house trophies.

All the sitting around meant wasted time, and I didn't have any to waste. My phone vibrated, and I pulled it out to see a text from Broadrick.

BROADRICK: You about done? It's been a while.

VONNIE: Yup, just wrapping up.

Ugh, if I didn't get out soon, he'd come in looking for me. My adrenaline had spiked when I heard the janitor earlier and now again when I decided to leave. I'd erroneously believed it couldn't get worse, but thoughts of Broadrick busting through the front doors to save me from myself brought everything to a new height. I had to get out of there.

But I couldn't leave until I had the evidence.

Where would a coach stash something he didn't want anyone else to find? I spun in his chair and stopped when my knee bashed into the corner of his desk. The big wooden monstrosity jerked against the floor with the movement, and the desk calendar skidded across the top an inch.

Revealing... something yellow.

It had corners and plumped up the calendar at least a quarter of an inch.

Interesting.

I slid the calendar the rest of the way and pulled out the yellow two-pocket folder.

Very interesting.

The chair squeaked as I leaned back and popped the folder open to hit the... freaking motherlode. The left pocket had a stash of hand-written notes with the required red hearts scribbled in the corners. I flipped one over and found the backsides even featured red lipstick prints-obviously handmade. Lip made.

They were all signed Renee Torres. Seemed like Vivi wasn't half wrong about the stupid in love chick in her high school.

More interesting than the love notes-which were pretty freaking interesting-was the right pocket. A thick report of papers stapled together in the left corner and titled "Results of Jared Torres Investigation."

I skimmed the first page and then pulled the entire report from the folder. Ten pages. Whoever wrote it had a lot to say, but the biggest thing I garnered from the front page was that Coach Torres had turned the notes into the school and reported an incident involving Renee. Suspicious for a man having an affair with her. They normally tried to keep that stuff secret.

Some people said you shouldn't believe rumors, but in Pelican Bay, they always had some element of truth. You just had to scratch around and find it.

I wanted to steal the folder-really wanted to steal the folder-but Anderson hated it when I took things he considered evidence. We had slightly different opinions on what counted as evidence. And stealing. And trespassing.

Our opinions differed on a lot of things.

I was right, and he was wrong, but I still couldn't get caught carrying around evidence.

Again.

Since jail time was a non-option for me, I whipped out my phone and took photos of each letter from Renee and the entire ten-page report. I'd have to read it through later when I had privacy.

I left the school through the same window I'd used to get in and didn't have a run-in with any squeaky janitors, but I still held my breath until I made it back to the car. Broadrick waited for me in the driver's seat, and I hurried to buckle my seatbelt since he wouldn't leave until I did.

"Drive," I said, clicking the belt.

He listened to directions, but didn't peel out of the lot like I wanted. Peeling out made things more dramatic. "Find anything good?"

"Oh, yeah."

He groaned. "Let's put it back before anyone sees. I don't know how long I'll be gone, so who will get you to your court dates?"

I shook my head as I stared at him. The man had no faith in me. "Chill, dude. I only took pictures."

"Thank God. You wore gloves, right?"

Shit. I didn't even consider gloves. I had to stop breaking PI Rule 47: Always wear gloves during misdeeds.

"Totally. I've got this," I lied and changed the topic. "I have one more stop."

"The bakery?" he asked, and you knew it was bad when Broadrick basically asked to visit the bakery. He had to be stressed. Or possibly resigned.

"No, I need to visit Dominick."

"The Impaler?" he questioned. "The leader of Pelican Bay's motorcycle club? That Dominick?"

I nodded. We only had one. "And I need to do it without him knowing."

Broadrick passed the bakery and turned toward my place. "That's called trespassing."

"You say tomato and I say to-mah-to."

**

My list kept growing, and if I didn't get a handle on it, then one of my cases would go unsolved. If I dropped one of my balls, who knew what might happen? Murder, mayhem, broken engagements. Granted, some consequences were worse than others.

Nine hours later, Broadrick let NB in from his late-night romp around the backyard. "Let's watch a movie," he said as I came out of the bedroom.

"Oh..." I figured he'd be going to bed soon and made other plans. Plans he would not like.

He grabbed the TV remote from the couch as I hesitated by the kitchen. "I'll make popcorn."

The smell of the homemade pizzas we'd had for dinner still wafted through the house, and I looked everywhere but at his hopeful face. "Yeah, sure. I just have to talk to Katy real quick." Hopefully, he didn't time me and had a liberal definition of "real quick."

Broadrick leaned his hip against the couch and stared. The intensity of his gaze drew mine to him. I had to see his expression to figure out his thoughts before he had them.

"You're wearing all black," he said, tapping the remote against his arm.

I brushed off invisible dirt from my black leggings. "Yeah. I like how it matches everything."

"Those are your burglary clothes."

"What?" I scrunched my face together and gave him a look to let him know I found him ridiculous. "I don't have burglary clothes. That's weird."

These were my borrowing clothes. The leggings had pockets to put stuff.

From the way he tilted his head to the side and raised that eyebrow of his, he didn't buy it. His phone buzzed three times, and I sent a silent thanks to the cavalry. You could always count on a bakery girl to come through in a pinch.

Broadrick read the message on his phone and swore first under his breath and then out loud. "I have to go."

"Oh darn," I deadpanned.

He jerked his head in my direction and held up his phone. "Did you do this?"

"What? How?" I'd need someone on the inside to cause a problem and send out a false alarm

Someone like Anessa.

My boss, good friend, and girlfriend to Bennett. Ridge Jefferson's right-hand man.

Someone like that.

I shook my head and tossed my hands in the air in a very distressed fashion. "What can you do? The world needs you. It would be unfair for you to not go."

NB circled at Broadrick's feet, and his forehead got all pinchy in agitation. "Stay here until I get back."

"Uh-huh. Absolutely." Not.

I mean, really. He should know better by now. It wasn't my fault if he hadn't learned how things worked in Pelican Bay.

**

The sun had set hours earlier, so I had Katy drop me off two blocks away from Dominick's compound, so I could walk the rest of the way. Without Broadrick as my backup, I had to work safely and quickly. The fake alarm Anessa made up to get the guys in a frenzy would probably buy me an hour, tops.

"You want me to wait?" Katy asked as I got out of her boyfriend Pierce's red sports car.

I stuck my head back in. "No. By the time I'm done, Broadrick will be searching for me. I'll have him pick me up."

Katy shook her head. "You two confuse me."

We confused me too. I shrugged and closed the door softly.

Woods bordered two sides of Dom's house, which stood only a few feet from the biker compound. I cut through the woods and waited at the tree line, watching the compound. The two-story house stood dark, but light poured out of the single-story compound where most of the bikers lived.

Loud music hummed from the building against the stark quiet of the converted farmhouse of Dom's residence. Bikers weren't known for early bedtimes, but I had to get in and out quickly because if Dom found me snooping through his home, he wouldn't turn me into Anderson for a night in jail. He'd do something worse. I didn't know what, but they were a biker gang, so the options weren't good.

I skipped the steps on the side porch and tried the back door. It opened easily. As the leader of the local motorcycle gang, Dominick probably never imagined someone would break into his place-not without a death wish.

The trees stood as sentinels behind me, and I set two silent timers on my phone for ten minutes and five minutes to keep me on schedule. I opened the door wider and squeezed my body through the hole.

Nine minutes and fifty-nine seconds.

My shoe squeaked on his tile floors.

Air swished in front of me from somewhere deeper in the room and a voice cut through the quiet. "Who the hell are you?"