(Jason)
I sat across from the guy in a run-down diner just off the freeway. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week—perfect. I didn’t need someone clean. I needed results.
“You Jason?” he asked, sipping his burnt coffee.
“Yeah. You the PI?”
He nodded, sliding a small notepad out of his jacket. “Call me Rick. You said it’s about a woman. Alina?”
I leaned in. “I need to know everything. Where she goes. Who she talks to. Where she sleeps. If she’s alone. If she’s not.”
Rick raised a brow. “You looking to get back with her, or…?”
“No. Just need to know. She’s got something that belongs to me.”
He jotted a few notes down, then looked up. “This about money?”
“It’s about a lot of things,” I said. “She left me when things got rough. Moved on. Real fast. Now she’s playing house with Damia
