22
“Hands on your . . . What the hell are you doing here?” T growled.
Brett had closed in from the other side of the vehicle. He spotted me instantly.
Crap.
I was going to hear about this later, I thought uneasily. And for good reason. We just put ourselves into danger and completely ruined whatever they had planned.
“We’re following the body,” Mrs. Janowski said. “Who did you kill?”
“No one . . . yet,” T gritted.
“Then who’s in the trunk?” she asked.
“The bartender,” Brett grudgingly answered.
“Dead?” she drilled with an arched brow. “Because he looked dead.”
“No, just knocked out.”
Mrs. Janowski nodded her approval. “He needed a little sense knocked into him. Whose car is that?”
“His.”
“How can we help?”
“Go home,” T said. “We’ll contact you in the morning.”
“Technically,
