Promise You Won't Tell? (A Dani Ripper Novel Book 2)
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“I think something might have happened to me Saturday night. Something bad.”
Private Investigator Dani Ripper’s client list is nuttier than the Looney Tunes conga line, but she diligently solves one crazy case after another, waiting for a game-changer.
Enter Riley Freeman, 17-year-old honor student.
Saturday afternoon Riley quietly placed a little strawberry sticker on her private area and pretended it was a tattoo. She didn’t tell anyone about it. That night she went to a slumber party that featured drinking and boys. Riley fell asleep, woke up the next day with no reason to think anything happened…
…Until Monday, at school, when a classmate called her Strawberry.
Coincidence or crime? Dani agrees to investigate. And the roller coaster ride begins.
true? I study him a moment. It can. “I’m honored,” I say. At five o’clock I unlock the front door of my office, look at the vacant reception desk, yell “Damn it!” and text Fanny. Where are you? Hospital. Oh yeah? Which hospital? Which room? Sorry, ER nurse just told me to turn off my cell phone. The front door opens and a very red-faced Eric Cobblestone enters, holding a paper bag at arms’ length. He takes a seat across from me, places the bag on the desk. “Your wife’s panties?” I
limo thing. Maybe it’s something else. In other words, I’m still confused. It’s… It’s a long story. Even Jana doesn’t want to hear it. If she did, she wouldn’t be changing the subject. She says, “My husband Max owns another house?” “Yes. A very nice one.” “For how long?” “According to the deed, three-and-a-half years.” “That doesn’t make sense. Darcie’s only worked for him a few months.” “Four months next week,” I say. “Do you have proof he fucked her on Tuesday?” “No.” “Maybe he had
work! And the clients? Don’t get me started! My current book of clients would tax the patience of a sloth. No proctologist in the country sees more assholes each week than me. In general, I mean, because every now and then you strike gold. You get a real client with real problems and you get a shining opportunity to feel good about your job. My passion is helping victimized kids. I can relate to them. I understand them. They trust me. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t sit around hoping kids will
eyes. I remove a pen and legal pad from my desk drawer and say, “When was the sleepover?” “Last Saturday night.” “Who’s house?” “Kelli Underhill.” “Were her parents there?” “Her mom.” “Who was invited?” “Four girls were invited. Me, Jennie Cox, Cammi Churra, and Parker Page. Parker’s my best friend. She left at midnight.” “Any boys?” She bites the corner of her lip. Then says, “Some boys came by later.” “How old were they?” “High school juniors and seniors.” “Seventeen?” She nods.
till we do.” “That sounds terribly expensive.” “Not after the fourth week.” “I doubt you’ll work very hard after the fourth week.” “You’re right. We probably won’t work on your case at all after the fourth week.” “What, you just give up?” I shrug. She frowns. “That doesn’t inspire much confidence.” “We only take cases we can solve quickly. If we give up, we offer a complete refund, minus the initial thousand for taking the case.” “Theoretically, you could take a thousand cases, solve