Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) by Karen Rose

            Croft just smiled, unperturbed. “When did you first see him?”

            “The night I did his tat.”

            Tom noted it on his tablet. “When was that, ma’am?”

            “You can cut the ‘ma’am’ bullshit, buddy. You think you can butter me up?”

            Tom didn’t rise to the bait. “When was that, ma’am?” he repeated.

            Dixie’s shoulders slumped. “Has to have been at least five years. I don’t know his name, so don’t ask. They paid cash, so don’t ask about receipts, either.”

            “Five years is a long time ago,” Croft remarked. “Was there something about him that made you recall his face after so much time?”

            Dixie looked away, but not before a spark of fear flickered in her eyes.

            “Did he hurt you, ma’am?” Tom asked kindly. “Or threaten you?”

            “No,” Dixie said, but too quickly. “I didn’t want to do the tat. I was done with that life. But he’d been sent by his boss and he wasn’t leaving until he got one. It was some kind of initiation thing, I think.” She swallowed. “I didn’t want to do it.”

            “But he forced you to,” Croft said sympathetically.

            Dixie simply shook her head, making it clear she’d said all she would on the topic.

            “You mentioned this man’s boss,” Tom said. “Who was he?”

            Dixie paled, shaking her head harder. “Haul me in for breaking parole if you want to. I’ll be safer back in prison.”

            Croft frowned, holding up DJ’s photo. “Are you afraid of this man or his boss?”

            “Both.” The word was barely audible. Her skin had grown sweaty, her fear palpable. “Mostly his boss.”

            “What did he do?” Tom asked.

            She held out her arms wordlessly. Tattooed vines covered her skin, but there were areas where the ink hadn’t taken as well. Scars. Round, about a centimeter in diameter.

            Tom’s stomach roiled, because he recognized those scars. He had several. His biological father had given them to him, trying to make Tom into a man. He’d been six years old. He could still smell the tobacco. And the burning skin.

            Someone had held Dixie Serratt down and burned her skin with cigarettes. He found himself unable to speak and was grateful when Croft stepped in.

            “This boss person did this to you?” she asked. “With cigarettes?”

            “Yeah, because I didn’t want to do any more tats for his boys. The next time one of his boys came in, I said yes.”

            Tom blew out a breath, trying to get hold of himself. “Can you tell us anything about him?”

            Dixie’s eyes narrowed, like she saw his reaction and understood. “No. He’s a big deal in these parts. Dig into the Chicos and his name will come up. Talk to the high school kids. They know the dealers. The dealers know him.”

            “Thank you,” Tom said, somehow keeping his voice level.

            “When was the last tat you did for them?” Croft asked.

            “Three years ago. Right before I went in again.” She grimaced. “I drove when I was high. My fault.” She dug in her pocket and pulled out an NA chip. “Two years sober. I’m trying to get my life right, but I draw the line at having my throat slit or getting a needle full of heart medicine.”

            Tom’s eyes widened and Dixie’s slammed shut.

            “Shit,” she muttered, covering her face with her hands. “I’m done talking to you. Please go.”

            Croft glanced over at him, then gestured at the curtain with a tilt of her head. “Thank you, Miss Serratt. We’ll leave our cards here on the table. If you think of anything else or receive any threats from the Chicos or their associates, please call. We’ll see ourselves out.”

            Tom waited until they were both in the SUV to lean his head back and close his eyes. “Fucking hell,” he whispered.