The Epilogues: Part I: Badge of Honor (The Potentate of Atlanta Book 6) Hailey Edwards (books for 10th graders .txt) 📖

Loud slurping punctuated the car ride as Bishop did his best to annoy the living daylights out of me.

Grateful to arrive at Marx’s, I was the first one out of the car and aimed for the hostess at the podium.

After reading her name tag, I started feeling lucky. “I don’t suppose you’re Amber Jakes?”

That was the name Anca dug up for us as the hostess on duty when Neely was taken.

“Depends on who’s asking.” She folded her arms over her chest. “The boss says we’re not supposed to talk to the press.”

“Your boss has the right idea, but we’re not with the press.” I pulled out the Atlanta Police Department credentials I used when dealing with humans since there was no human equivalent to the OPA. “We would like to ask you a few questions.”

“Sure thing.” She caught the eye of a waitress. “Beth, can you hold down the fort? These officers would like to question me in relation to the events that resulted in an assault and an abduction outside our workplace last night.” She must have noticed my expression. “I watch a lot of Law & Order.”

Fingers crossed she didn’t break out into faux legal jargon learned on the show next.

After her post was covered, she led us to a quiet corner with no customers. “How can I help?”

“You were listed on the schedule as the hostess,” I began. “Did you work alone?”

“Yes.” She fiddled with her name tag. “I close on the weekends, have for years.”

“A witness we interviewed claimed there were two hosts working that night,” I fibbed. “Is that true?”

“No.” She rolled her eyes. “I bet they meant Wesley.”

Phone out, I scanned the list of names. “There’s no Wesley on the schedule for last night.”

“He’s a floater.” She flipped a hand. “They call him in when it gets busy. He works at Lockdown too.”

Bishop caught my eye, and I read recognition of the name and more in his pinched expression.

Writing my notes in an app, I asked, “Does he have any close friends who work here?”

“No.” She snorted. “He’s hotheaded and mean. Hates women. That’s why the management won’t bring him on full-time. He’s an excellent waiter, though. Customers love him. It’s like night and day when he’s on the floor versus when he’s in the back.”

“That sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen,” Bishop mused. “Who keeps bringing him in?”

“Dean Richards.”

That name was on my list, and I didn’t miss her clipped tone. “Not a fan of Dean?”

“He’s the new weekend manager. He’s been here maybe six weeks, and he’s a tyrant.” She hesitated. “I mean that in the best way. He runs a tight ship, keeps Wesley on a short leash. He really gets things done. He’s about as personable as a wet paper bag, though.”

A man like that didn’t strike me as the sort to invite chaos into his carefully ordered workplace.

“Is Dean here tonight?”

“He called in sick.” Her smile drooped. “First time he’s missed a day. Last night must have shaken him.”

That, or he got what he came for.

“Thanks for your time.” I gave her one of my human-friendly cards. “Call if you think of anything else.”

“I’ll do that.”

After exiting the restaurant, I was again drawn to the spot where Cruz had been attacked.

An echo of his pain and fear stained the air, or maybe it was my imagination.

A man taken, a man beaten, just to send me a message.

A call, text, or email would have snared my attention just as fast.

“Richards has worked here for six weeks.” I dragged my attention from the sidewalk to what we learned. “We need to ask how far out Cruz booked his reservation.”

“You think Richards took the job to make the grab?”

“You believe it’s coincidence he didn’t show up for work tonight?”

“What do I always say about coincidences?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I shoved him. “Before I forget, you gave me a look after she mentioned Lockdown.”

“Lockdown is a para-owned bar, and a seedy one at that. The staff is all para, so is the clientele.”

“I assume we’re going there next?”

“Might as well.” He cut me a wicked grin. “How about a race?”

“Race?” I gawked at him. “You run?”

“No.”

“Then how…?” I clamped my mouth shut when a golden gwyllgi trotted around the corner. “No.”

Pack magic allowed gwyllgi to walk down the street on four legs without people running, screaming, or shooting at them, but Midas preferred two legs, which made this all kinds of suspicious.

Folding my arms across my chest, I glowered at them. “This is dirty pool, gentlemen.”

The gwyllgi wagged his tail, all sweetness and innocence. I didn’t buy it for a hot minute.

“What’s the prize?” I jutted out my hip. “How do you plan to motivate me?”

I was grateful beyond measure that Midas was every bit as devoted to my goals as me. He wasn’t happy to let me limp across the finish line. He wanted me to smash it. He wanted me to crush it. He wanted me to shed the last vestige of Amelie Pritchard and rise like the phoenix on the city seal as Hadley Whitaker, the Potentate of Atlanta.

But frak it all, I had already done my laps tonight. This must be punishment for skipping yesterday.

Midas walked a circle around me, bumped my hand with his nose, then lowered into a sprinter’s crouch.

Bishop raised his hand in the shape of a gun and said dryly, “Bang.”

The blond gwyllgi took off like a shot, but I stood my ground, stubborn to the last.

Rocking back and forth, I watched Midas until he disappeared, and then I growled out loud.

“You’re handing him the victory.” Bishop clucked his tongue. “I might as well—”

“Oh, shut it.” I couldn’t resist the challenge, and they both knew it. “I’ll remember this.”

Grateful sneakers were my go-to footwear, I broke into a jog to warm my muscles before I put on speed. I used those precious seconds to set my GPS, since I wasn’t certain of Lockdown’s location.

Midas must have given up