by W Winters
I turn my gaze back to Walsh, noting how he looks at me like I’m hiding something. “Both of them are dead. Laura’s father and Fletcher. They’re both dead and buried ten feet under.”
“Marcus must have known about the list and he got to them first,” Jase presumes and places a hand on my shoulder, urging me to stand back up. With the blood still rushing in my ears and my head spinning, I stand up straighter. “He killed his own men because they weren’t good enough to hide from us.”
I can’t fucking breathe in here. Loosening my tie, I hear Walsh tell Jase everything he did.
“Maybe surveillance on your computer?” Jase suggests after a series of back and forths.
“It doesn’t matter. The information is useless.”
“We gave you good intel. It’s not our problem if you fucked it up.”
“It actually is,” Walsh replies condescendingly. “We don’t have a deal until I say so. And this?” he says as he puts both of his hands up and then slowly shakes his head. “No deal.”
“What do you want?” I ask him, glancing at Jase whose face easily tells me what he wants. He wants to take that glass or maybe the bottle, any fucking thing he can get his hands on and smash it into Walsh’s skull. I bet that’s what’s playing through his mind right now. On repeat.
“I want Marcus.” Defeat colors Walsh’s tone and he drops his head into his hands, putting both his elbows on the bar.
“Get him another drink,” I order and Anthony’s quick to reply, “Yes, sir” at the same time Walsh says, “No.”
“We have information at least,” Jase says beneath his breath and then nods his head at Walsh. “His computer’s being watched.”
“Potential information,” I correct him. “There’s no way to know how and when Marcus got that list.”
“What’s that?” Walsh asks. The second he does, the glass of vodka hits the bar and Walsh shoves it to the side.
I take it. Still feeling the rage of adrenaline coursing through me, I throw back the shot and then tell Anthony, “Another.”
I can’t get the thoughts of Laura out of my head. Marcus is shoving her right in the middle. He gave her over to Walsh. He’s going to know about her connection with Delilah. He will soon if he doesn’t already. It’s fucked. Everything is fucked.
“We’ll look into what we can give you,” I answer Walsh and before he can respond, the shot hits the bar and I down it, hissing from the heat that rolls down the back of my throat and spreads through my chest.
“What can you give me?” Walsh’s anger gets the best of him. “Don’t forget what I have on you,” he warns.
“Don’t forget we’ve both gotten away with worse,” I grit back. “We’re helping you find him, against our better judgment. Be grateful for that.”
Jase only observes and then orders two more shots from Anthony. “Unless you want to take us up on that free drink,” he offers Walsh.
The officer is silent as Jase takes a shot with me. And then orders two more. My head feels faint with the alcohol hitting me, but my mind still races and whatever I do, I can’t tame the anger.
Walsh watches as another shot goes down. It burns and settles deep in the pit of my stomach. It only fuels the need to get to Marcus. To be the one to take him down.
“He shouldn’t have brought Laura into this,” I tell Jase, feeling the swell of anger rise to my shoulders.
“You know what they call serial killers like him?” Walsh asks and Anthony pushes another pair of shots in front of us. When I look at him, his gaze is fixated on the empty shot glass, turning it on the table.
I’ve had enough. Enough of everything. Jase is quick to throw his back, slamming the glass down just as Walsh answers his own question. “Angel of Death. They don’t stop. I may be your enemy, but he’s worse.”
Neither Jase or I respond. I watch silently as Walsh’s guard drops as his true intentions come closer to the surface.
“It’s only a matter of time before you do something he deems punishable by death.”
“Is that why you want him so bad? The serial killer who got away back when you were an agent?” I goad him, wondering if he’ll even mention Delilah.
Jase takes the last shot on the bar when I don’t touch it.
“No,” Walsh answers honestly, but he doesn’t give away any of the truth. The way his gaze seems to look through me, I think he already knows that I know. He’s connected the dots. Which means he knows that Laura knows too. He makes his final plea and says, “Help me. Give me information.”
The thoughts of Laura and Delilah remind me of the notebooks. We have them. We have the locations.
I don’t trust Walsh though. I don’t trust his ass and that realization brings me to the conclusion that maybe he killed them. Maybe he didn’t find them dead. But that can’t be. It doesn’t explain the notes.
My head spins and a low exhale of agitation leaves me.
“We’ll see what we can do,” Jase answers Walsh even though his eyes are on me. “Now get out of my bar.”
My gaze shifts between the back of Walsh’s loose shirt as he weaves through the crowd and Anthony, who’s standing with his hands clasped in front of him to my right. I know he can feel my eyes on him, but he doesn’t look. He doesn’t turn to watch. The kid doesn’t know what to do, so I ask him, “What do you think?”
He hesitates to answer and when he does, he clears his throat first before saying, “I think the note has to mean something, but he’s a fucking psychopath and I don’t understand.”
A large hand grasping my shoulder pulls my attention away from Anthony. Jase doesn’t ask, he commands, “Have another drink with me.”
“I have to go to Laura. She just got done with work.” Fuck, I need to tell her Walsh knows. There’s so much I need to tell her.
Jase walks around to the other side of the bar, pulling out stools for both of us. “It’s one forty. She’s already at your place by now.”
“He brought her into this. Marcus doesn’t play by any rules. He hits where it hurts.”
“We may be a step ahead of him though. Now that we know he’s watching Walsh’s computer.”
I nod in agreement, or at least my head does without my conscious consent. Marcus just graduated to the top of my hit list.
“Grab her a bottle of red wine like you said you would and have another drink before you lose your shit.”
It hits me that Jase is saying the same words to me that I’ve said to him a dozen times before.
“When did that happen?” I ask him with a smile, a sad and fucked up one, playing on my lips.
“What?” Jase asks me, not waiting on Anthony now that he’s busy with the patrons who have taken up the momentarily empty seats. He reaches around the other side, grabbing a half-empty bottle, choosing to stick to vodka, and two glasses.
“When did I become the angry one needing to be calmed down?” I joke with him.
“Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been angry.” He places the shot down in front of me before adding, “You just didn’t show it.” His response is dead serious.
I pour the shot into my mouth, noting how he squeezes my shoulders and then swallow the chilled clear liquid, feeling the burn flow down my throat and then lower through my abdomen.
Jase takes his and then taps the glass on the bar, looking at the stool where Walsh was sitting. “Now you need to tell me…” he says and his tone changes. Not to one of a boss, but to one of a friend who’s desperate to help his buddy clean up his mess, “…everything about Fletcher and Laura’s father so we can figure out this fucking note.”
Laura
My shift is over but I can’t leave this place. I can’t walk away knowing Melody’s in there and she just confessed to murder. I can’t call Walsh. I can’t bring myself to do anything but sit in my car. It’s on and the heat is blasting since I was freezing when I got in.
Seth hasn’t called or texted. I thought he’d be waiting up for me, but when I messaged him
, realizing how late I was, he didn’t respond.
That alone and lost feeling I felt earlier today returns. When you’re with someone, shouldn’t you feel it? I remember, years ago, feeling that security and knowing he was there always when I had Seth. This is different.
I don’t really have Seth right now though, do I? I have him in only two ways. He wants my body and my obedience.
I put my phone away. 9-1-1 was waiting for me to press send. All I had to do was push send and ask to speak to Walsh. I assume this late though, he’s not working. I was ready to leave a message, but I don’t want to do that. I don’t owe anyone anything. I’ll write Melody’s confession down on the charts. I’ll let Aiden deal with it. I already called him and left a voicemail. I already filled out all the necessary paperwork per protocol.
It’s not relief I feel when I put the car into drive and pull off onto the main road. There’s this gnawing hurt that eats away at me. It points out that I’m not enough. I’ve never been enough.
I’m too weak to handle any of it. I always have been. Does Seth really want me? How could he when he knows more than anyone how little I can handle?
The green light and white streetlights blur as I drive by them.
I turn on the radio and put the volume up then roll down my window and turn off the heat. A shaky breath leaves me and then another.
I miss my grandma. I miss my father too.
Memories of the two of them flicker through my head as I drive, desperately trying to think of anything but my present situation.
I remember one night my dad told me he had to make a stop before going home. I never liked it when he had to make stops at this “friend’s” house. He wasn’t a bad guy. My father really wasn’t a bad guy at all. There wasn’t a day that went by where I didn’t know he loved me. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for me. The thing is though… he did bad things and he got himself into bad situations.
I knew that he peddled pills. I wasn’t that naïve. So when he stopped in front of an apartment complex I’d never been in, I was already on edge.
He leaned over and told me, “If you hear bullets, drive away as fast as you can.” He made me say I would and then he went inside. I still remember his smile and that should have given it away. I was fifteen, I didn’t even have a driver’s permit, but I got in the driver seat and stared at the front glass door on high alert the second he was out of view.
My father laughed and laughed when he saw me after he’d been inside for only a couple of minutes. After all, he was just joking. He gave me a kiss on the cheek when I settled back into my seat, and the smile he’d left with was wider than before. He would never know how scared I was.
Not at the thought of hearing bullets or having to drive away. But at the thought that I’d have to drive away without him. My father wasn’t a bad man at all and I love him still, but damn did he put bad things in my head.
I don’t even realize I’ve driven to Seth’s house until I put the car in park. I pull up next to his, noting that the headlights are still on. Did he just get in?
As I’m walking up to his door, the headlights go out. That’s the first thing that startles me. It’s always an uneasy feeling when lights go out and leave you in the dark.
The second thing that nearly gives me a heart attack is when Seth opens the door without any notice at all. I choke on my scream and my hand holding the keys flies up to my throat. It’s such a jarring quick response, I almost jab myself with the key I’m so on edge.
“Fuck,” I sputter, my heart pounding in my chest so hard, it makes me question if I remembered to take my medicine this morning. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Seth’s grip isn’t gentle when he pulls me into his house. “Where were you?” he demands in a low, threatening tone. Ripping out of his grasp, I look at him like he’s lost his mind.
Fear, not anger is etched into his handsome expression. Everything about him reminds me how damaged he is. Everything but the booze coming off of him.
“Are you drunk?” The accusation in my tone is evident.
He breathes out heavily. Slamming the front door and moving around me to go to the kitchen sink.
I can’t believe the sight of him. Never taking my eyes off of him, I toss down my keys and purse. Seth’s busy washing his face at the sink as I take a look around the room. He couldn’t have been here long, but still, there’s a hole punched into the drywall that leads to the hall.
“You hurt your hand?” I bite out, feeling angrier by the second. What the hell is wrong with him?
His shoulders are hunched over the sink still as he braces himself with his forearms after wiping off his face. “I thought someone took you,” he admits to me. His breathing still hasn’t calmed and guilt quickly replaces the anger.
I never know what to feel when it comes to Seth. Right now though, I feel sorry for him. He’s still in his suit pants but his shirt is disheveled and I can see from here the bruise already covering his battered hand.
“I should have texted sooner; I just had a bad night.” I apologize with every ounce of sincerity I can muster. I know the wars he fought, both physical and emotional, have left scars on Seth.
“You had a bad night,” he huffs out humorlessly and then covers his face with both of his hands, leaning his head back.
It’s so fucking insulting. Like I can’t have a hard night because I don’t do what he does. It’s hard not to be angry. It’s more difficult than anything not to engage and let him know punching holes into walls and yelling at me because I’m late—even though he was too—isn’t acceptable.
“I’m sorry you thought something happened to me,” I say, speaking up to make sure he can hear me as I grab my keys. The sound of them jingling finally brings his gaze back to me.
He looks like he’s gone through hell and back. I get that. I do, but I didn’t sign up for this shit.
“I’m going home and when you’re sober—”
“The hell you are.” Seth’s tone is demanding and desperate all at once. “Get your ass over here.”
My feet are cemented where they are, undecided on whether or not I should have a backbone and leave, or whether I should go to him. The fluttering in my chest and the way my throat goes tight when he looks at me like that, desperately from across the room, that’s what makes me put my keys back down and make my way to him.
The second I put a foot in the kitchen, he pulls me in tight and hugs me to him. Yes, he smells like booze. He smells like him too. This deep masculine, heavy scent that I used to dream of. A scent I swore I could smell on one of my shirts once so I refused to wash it until I could no longer make out his fragrance.
“Please don’t treat me like that,” I breathe into his shirt, my eyes still open. His are closed though. Both arms wrapped around me, he rocks me right there in front of the sink.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs and then kisses my crown.
It’s then that I remember a similar night. A night like this. One where I was ready to leave, but I didn’t. Because I love him. I love the way he holds me; I love the way he smells. I love what he does to me and what I can do to him.
But as I stand here, too sober, too exhausted, too wrung the hell out, I remember very clearly something I told myself for years as I cried myself to sleep.
If I’d left that night, Cami would still be here.
That thought is why I push myself away from Seth, not wanting to cry anymore. His rough fingers brush my skin when I back away. The counter hits my lower back and with both of my palms pressed to my eyes I walk out of the kitchen. The silence behind me proves he doesn’t follow me.
Fuck, I can’t take any more today. I swear I can’t take any more.
“What’s wrong?” he asks me, clearly having no idea.
“I don’t know where to start,” I say and breathe out heavily. Wanting to sit on the sofa, but also looking toward the door. Therapy taught me a lot when I was in school. It taught me I should be by myself when I
feel like this. When it gets to be too much, I don’t communicate well. I know I don’t. “I had a really bad day and I just… I can’t do much of anything right now.”
“Can’t what?” Seth questions from behind me and I turn around to face him. With his tie loose around his neck, the top two buttons undone and the one closest to the top hanging on by a thread, Seth looks rough. Rough has always looked good on him, but not tonight. Not the way he looks at me with his lips parted, still breathing heavily. He looks wounded beyond repair.
“Are you okay?” I ask him, swallowing the wretched emotions that come with seeing him like this. He nods, not telling me anything and that’s okay too. He doesn’t have to, not right now. Not ever if he doesn’t want to. We do need to talk about him reacting the way he did though. His anger; his fear.
“I think we should sleep,” I suggest, not feeling well myself. “If I look the way I feel, you know I need sleep right now,” I tell him although I can’t look him in the eye.
“Talk to me,” he urges.
“What’s gotten into you?” I question him, not liking the way he looks at me like he’s about to lose me.
“You don’t want to know,” is all he says, again shaking his head. The hand he bloodied rises to his eyebrow and it’s shaking. My strong man is trembling.
“I’m here, I’m here,” I reassure him, holding him like he held me. This time I close my eyes and I let him rock me. I whisper against his chest, fighting sleep and refusing to be anything less than a rock for him now. “I do. I want to know.”
“I have secrets,” he tells me and I don’t know if I should laugh, or maybe roll my eyes. It would be insulting if he wasn’t wasted right now. I watch his throat tighten, the stubble on it even longer without him having shaved since I last saw him, as he swallows.
“You think I don’t know that?” As I speak, my voice is soft and it’s meant to be comforting, it’s meant to make him feel better. I know he has secrets and he hides things. I accept it.
