Hell's Angel (BK 1)

Private Investigator

"Oh, I work at The Bulletin. But I work at the Square nights and weekends," I answered.

"The Square?" Mr. Murdock asked.

"The Square Diner," I elaborated, writing down my address on the paper. "It's not far from my son's school." That reminded me to also write that down. I didn't know what exactly was pertinent information—so I wrote down everything and anything I could think of. Even things that probably wouldn't be needed. It was a possibility so I went for it. "Do you work there tonight?" Dani asked.

"My shift starts at seven," I nodded, looking up at her.

"Do you have a nanny?" she asked. I shook my head, and she nodded. "I'll watch your son while you work, in case he comes by again." I hadn't thought of that before but, now that I did, my body flooded with relief. Chase really shouldn't be home alone. Not when his psychotic father was lurking about. So I thanked her for the offer and continued writing down my information.

Dani's POV
(Nightwing27th)

To be honest, I was shocked to hear from Foggy. It's been a few years since I'd seen him last. I forgot he even had my number. But, I'm glad he called. I think I can help Alison with her man trouble, like I did all those years ago. Maybe not as forceful, this time. She did a pretty good job of filling out the note pad. Most of the stuff she wrote down I have to pry out of people.

I paced in my office, just before the desk, staring at her writing. I twirled the pen I was chewing on between my thumb and index finger. So, I guess this means he never stopped following her. And she hasn't stopped following me. Or at least, my...other half. I toss the note pad on my desk and then circle it, walking to the chair.

I turn my laptop back on as I sit down. It comes to life and I type in my password. I click on the first search bar I come to and type in this guy's name: Steve Dawson. Apparently, a lot of people like that name. I spent the next three hours combing through the list until I think I found the right one.

An old social media account set up twelve years ago says he's married and lives in Miami. Frankly, I don't think either one of those are true. And then after a few phone calls, I'm right back where I started. Nowhere. His 'boss' at some 7 Eleven claims he doesn't know anyone by that name. This 'wife', doesn't even exist from what I can tell.

This guy has covered his tracks so well...this had to be professional. This loser couldn't have pulled this off alone. But why does he want the kid? After all this time? What's changed? I glance down to the bottom corner of my screen. 6:29pm. That's my queue to leave. I need to be on time, this time.

I stand and walk to the coat rack in the corner. I grab my black leather jacket and slip it on as I make my way to the large mirror hanging on the back of the office door. I pull my wavy, almost black, hair out of the collar and let it fall across my shoulders. Then I do a once over. Black leather boots, faded silver tights, light purple knee high skirt, and with a tank top almost the same shade.

I don't like wearing skirts all the time, but I have to in this line of work. Gives people a chance to underestimate me. Nobody would expect someone dressed like a perky teenager to accuse them of an affair, or worse. I roll my eyes and head for the front door. I switch the sign to 'closed' before locking it behind me.

Thankfully I don't have to go far. Alison's apartment is just across the street from my office/home. I don't exactly know which it is these days. I walk down the hall and then jog down the stairs. I reach the bottom step and am painfully reminded of last night. I look down at my right calf muscle. The color of the tights masks the white bandages below. But I should walk slower. These tights aren't going to cover up blood if I rip the stitches.