Smoke & Mirrors by Skye Jordan

32

Logan

Two weeks later

I’m in the engine bay when my cell rings, but I’m in an intense tug-of-war with Lucky over a toy Sorenson, of all people, brought in—a sloth in a bunny suit with a squeaker somewhere inside.

As soon as Ken gave it to him, Lucky took ownership and won’t leave it anywhere. He even grabs it when the alarm sounds and runs to the rescue, jumping in with the damn thing in his mouth. Needless to say, he’s won Sorenson over. I may even have seen the boss napping in a lounge chair with Lucky tucked beside him a time or two.

Lucky’s really grown in the month since I found him—physically and emotionally. He’s silly and sneaky and sweet, and he brings joy to everyone he comes into contact with. Sure, he’s constantly getting into trouble, but that really just makes him one of us.

“Don’t answer that,” Tucker says. He’s got twenty bucks bet on Lucky giving up on the tug-of-war before I do. Bobby, Cole, Carter, and Royal are in the pool, each cheering on their hopeful winner.

To answer my phone, I’d have to let go with at least one hand, and Lucky’s stronger than he looks. I’m pretty sure he’d rip it away.

I glance at the phone and see Corbett’s number on my screen. “Sorry, guys, I gotta take this.”

I let go of the toy to everyone’s disappointment, and Lucky was pulling so hard, he does a backward somersault before righting himself and running away with the bunny-sloth, which gets the guys laughing again.

With all the commotion in the engine bay and voices echoing off hard surfaces, I head outside to answer the phone right as Isabel pulls to the curb.

“Hey,” I answer the phone, “can you hold on a sec?” Then I ask Isabel, “Which design did Tina pick?”

“The one with Trevor’s newborn footprint.”

All the tattoos she sketched for Tina were beautiful. “That was my favorite.”

She gets out of the car. “We’re going into Portland tomorrow to find a tattoo artist. Who’s that?”

“Corbett.” I put the phone on speaker and say, “What’s up?”

“After reviewing all the evidence, the chief has declared the rifle belongs to Isabel. The sales receipt has been authenticated, and while it may show McBride as the owner, it clearly states Isabel was the person who paid for it. And that makes her the legal owner, despite what the auction house wrote on the receipt.”

Isabel sucks in a breath, eyes still on the phone, like she’s expecting the other shoe to drop.

“I relayed that message to McBride,” Corbett says. “He took it about as well as you can imagine. Hung up on me.”

She drops her head back, closes her eyes, and says, “Yes.”

McBride went back to New York the day they released him from jail, but did exactly what Isabel said he would do in a conflict and contacted a lawyer about getting the gun back.

“I’ve got even better news,” Corbett says, bringing Isabel’s gaze back to the phone. “My uncle is a bit of an antiques buff. He’s not into weapons, but he knows someone who is, a guy named Malcolm Wells. Wells runs an auction house in Pennsylvania, an area rich in history and lots of antiques. So my uncle asked him about the rifle. After explaining all the details and surveying the rifle over Zoom, Wells did some research and told my uncle the rifle is definitely a valuable antique. From the decorative silver and ivory, he identified the gun as one customized for and owned by General John Sullivan, who fought in the American Revolution, under George Washington. That dates the rifle back to the late seventeen hundreds.”

Isabel’s eyes are wide, but she doesn’t seem to understand the significance any more than I do.

“I don’t know anything about antiques,” I say. “Can you put it in layman’s terms for us?”

“In layman’s terms, that rifle is worth a shitload of money. As in high five digits.”

She grabs my arm, but speaks to Corbett on the phone. “Are you serious?”

“I’m serious.”

“That’s why Aiden was being such a prick,” Isabel says. “That’s why he wouldn’t let this go. It didn’t have anything to do with me.”

“I don’t know about that,” I tell her. “He may have found out what it was worth and decided not to have you ship something that valuable, but he obviously thought he could kill two birds with one stone and get you back too. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have put his hands on you.”

“Wells said he’d sell it at his auction house if you want,” Corbett says. “He gets a fee, of course, but my uncle says that fee would be paid back ten times over because of the higher price you’d get for the rifle back east. He says it was in Sullivan’s possession when he crossed the Delaware. As concrete a piece of the past as there ever was.”

Isabel presses both hands to her cheeks. “Holy shit.”

“Thanks,” I tell Corbett, “and thank your uncle for us, will you? I’ll get back to you about selling—”

“No,” Isabel cuts in. “Sell it. For God’s sake, sell it. Just let me know what we have to do or get me Wells’s contact information.”

“Will do.”

“Corbett?” Isabel says before he disconnects.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry I called you a sonofabitch.”

Corbett laughs. “Apology accepted.”

When I disconnect, Isabel throws herself into my arms. “Oh my God.”

I hug her tight. “This is amazing. You’ll have the money to kickstart your business.”

“Think of all the amazing upgrades we can make to the motel,” she says, pulling back with stars in her eyes. “It’ll be up and running for the summer season kickoff.”

I tilt my head. “I meant your design business.”

A big smile brightens her face. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her happier. “Sounds like there will be enough money to do both. And I’ve been thinking about asking you about us going in on the motel together. It could be our business, you know? Our baby, so to speak.”

Lucky streaks out of the firehouse, toy still clamped between his teeth and jumps on Isabel. Since she’s decided to stay, she and Lucky have become nearly inseparable. We moved Isabel into the apartment and built a workspace for her in room 7. Lucky follows her around like a tail at home and always tries to get in between us in bed, snuggling up to Isabel. Needless to say, he hasn’t stayed between us long, and if I have anything to say about it, he never will. One of my greatest joys is having Isabel in my bed every night.

She leans down and picks up the squirming, tail-wagging, face-licking devil. “Don’t worry, buddy. You’ll always be our first baby. In fact, I got you a present.”

“He’s getting spoiled,” I say. “All these presents are going to ruin him.”

Isabel reaches into the pocket of her Hood River Fire & Rescue hoodie and pulls out a red strap, then holds it up. “His first collar.”

I grin and slide my arm around her waist, pulling her up against my side. “That’s great.”

She takes the silver tag in the shape of a Maltese cross between her fingers and shows me the engraving. Lucky’s name on one side and on the other, both our phone numbers, labeled as Mom and Dad.

She’s assured me she’s staying because the corporate design life doesn’t call to her anymore, and because she wants to be with me, but up until right this minute, I didn’t realize I doubted that commitment.

“We’re in this together,” she tells me, her voice soft, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “We’re living together, we’ve got a—potential—business together, and a puppy together.” She kisses me and her dark eyes shine with joy. “I love you, Logan. I’m staying. We’re solid.”

And just like that, my outlook turns around.

"I love you too." I pull her close and kiss her again. “Which means there’s nothing left to see but good.”

She nods. “All good.”