He simply couldn’t believe her, no matter what the evidence said.
“I don’t—”
“I know you don’t,” Saint said, not unkindly. His friend seemed to realize King was holding himself together by a fraying thread.
“Wes would cover his tracks far better than this,” King pointed out. His cousin was a literal genius, and although he’d been in their sights as a possible suspect all along, that had been due to proximity, not any actual evidence. Not even a hint of suspicious activity until last night, when he and Hugh had arrived in the garden. Wes would have stayed away from them if he were guilty.
Unless he was worried about Charlotte. You know he’d risk anything for her.
A glance showed Saint squinting through the windshield into the sun, seeming to consider his point. “I think he would too, and yet, who else is a lawyer and looks like your first cousin and is involved in this case? No one.”
“There are a lot of blond lawyers in Atlan—”
Saint raised a hand to hold him off. “I’m not saying he did it, King. But I’m also not sure he didn’t.” He shifted in his seat to meet King’s eyes. “Something is there; you can’t deny that, even if we aren’t certain what that something is. We need to figure it out.”
That was the grim reality that had King wishing he could punch something. Somehow, Wes had gotten himself tangled up in this whole mess, but King couldn’t believe it was intentional. Hell, he couldn’t even believe Wes knew what he was tangled up in—it was too far-fetched to fit with logic.
He cranked the car. “Call Dain.”
Saint drew his seat belt across his body, simultaneously reaching into his pocket for his cell. “And tell him what?”
“To meet us at Wes’s office.” King backed out of the parking space, put the car in drive, and hit the gas hard.
The drive back toward Blossomwood was mostly silent after Saint made the call. King gripped the steering wheel like his life depended on it, the churning in his stomach growing with every mile they traveled, like a gnawing monster consuming his intestines one inch at a time. An hour later, entering the downtown district, he was fairly certain the monster had started on the rest of his internal organs.
Wes’s law office was located a couple of blocks south of the courthouse. King swung the car into a metered space right in front of the building, throwing it into park. Saint jumped out with him, a sharp whistle grabbing Dain’s attention a couple of cars down. The three of them met at the front entrance and hurried inside without greetings.
A slim brunette sat behind the shiny desk in the understated elegance of the waiting room. Her eyes widened when she saw them, probably at the sheer size and intensity of the three men bearing down on her, but when she focused in on King, he knew she’d seen the family resemblance. “May I help you gentlemen?”
King felt like anything but a gentleman, though he somehow managed to keep his voice low-key. “Is Wes in?”
Hazel eyes narrowed. “And you are?”
Looks wouldn’t get him around the rules, huh? “Kingsley Moncrief, Wes’s cousin. It’s urgent that we see him.”
She frowned, the downturn of her lips barely creasing her perfect skin. “I’m afraid he’s not in the office today. It’s the day he normally spends at Creating Families with his clients there.”
King spun to his companions. Saint already had his phone to his ear.
“Vicky? Hey, this is Saint Solorio.” A pause, and Saint’s mouth pulled into a faint smile. “Glad you remember me. Listen, Wes wouldn’t happen to be available, would he?” Another, longer pause. “Uh-huh. Okay, thank you.” He hung up. “Wes isn’t there. He called in sick this morning.”
“He visited the house right after y’all left,” Dain said. “He was there to see Charlotte.”
And Charlotte had spent the night with King. King knew his woman, and if Wes had come to discuss anything beside the investigation, she would have felt the need to advise him of the change in her relationship with King. “Damn.”
“What?” Saint asked.
“We should check his town house,” King said. “It’s a couple of miles away.”
His teammates nodded grimly. “I’ll get Elliot on the phone with him,” Dain said as they hurried toward the door.
“Excuse me,” the receptionist called behind them. King paused, glanced over his shoulder. “Is Wes all right?” she asked anxiously.
“I’m sure he is,” he reassured her. He wasn’t sure if he believed that himself, but he prayed it was the truth as he followed Saint to the car.
His cousin lived in a high-end gated community not far from his office. King had never been there, but he’d given in to his curiosity and looked it up when he’d seen the address in Wes’s file. Unfortunately for them, it was a gated community that actually took security seriously. The guard at the gate stopped them on their way in.
“Residence?” the man asked.
“We’re here to see Wes Moncrief, 2381 Reeve’s Creek Lane,” King said.
The man frowned. “Let me contact Mr. Moncrief. Please wait.”
The window to the guard shelter closed before King could protest. He let loose a blistering string of curses anyway.
Saint’s hand settled on his bicep. “We’ll get there. It’ll be okay.”
But the urgency in King’s stomach said something was very much not okay. He wasn’t sure what, but that sixth sense that had saved his ass a couple of times in the field was shouting at him now. Wes was in danger. They had to hurry.
The window opened again. “I’m afraid Mr. Moncrief is not answering his telephone. You’ll need to return at a later time.”
King dug out his JCL badge and passed it to the man. “I’m Wes’s cousin, and he’s been helping us with a case at JCL Security. I need a welfare check on his residence right now.”
The guard frowned, but unlike some security personnel who felt the need to throw their weight around, he accepted King’s explanation and reached for his phone. King listened as he contacted one of the members of his security team. It took about five minutes before the phone rang back.
The guard picked it up. “Yes?”
King couldn’t decipher the words from inside the car, but he could hear the voice on the other end—the man was yelling. King’s heart went into overdrive. “Open the gate!” he snapped. “Open it!”
The guard, flustered either by King’s demand or whatever his fellow guard was saying, glanced between King and the security screens for what seemed like forever but was probably mere seconds. Finally he snapped into the phone, “We’re on our way!” He snatched up a walkie-talkie and pinned King with a stare. “Wait right there. I’ll open the gate, then ride with you. I can get you there faster than you can find it.”
King agreed impatiently, barely holding on to his control as the gate began a slow swing away from them. The guard hopped into the back seat, and King had the car in motion before the man slammed his door closed. “Where to?”
“Right at the stop sign,” the man said. In the rearview mirror King could see him dialing numbers on a cell. He didn’t protest as King blew through the intersection, only telling him to take a left before turning his attention back to his phone. “Yes, we need an ambulance to the Millwood Preserve subdivision, 2381 Reeve’s Creek Lane. We have a resident in need of emergency personnel.”
Oh God, oh God, oh God. King gripped the steering wheel hard and begged for help from every deity he thought might listen as Wes’s house came into view. King knew which one it was before the guard told him—the community security vehicle was parked outside. As he squealed to a stop at the curb, another guard flew out the front door, racing toward them.
“What happened? What’s wrong?” King asked as he jumped from the car. The guard stammered, getting out nothing intelligible, and rather than wait, King darted past him. Shouts called him back, but no way in hell was he listening. Wes needed him. King had left him behind ten years ago, but now his cousin needed him, and he wasn’t stopping f
or anything.
The lower floor was open concept, and King saw at a glance that Wes wasn’t there. The stairs were to his right, and he raced up them three at a time, his footsteps pounding to the same frantic rhythm as his heart. The first room at the top was a guest bedroom if King had to guess—nothing personal, neatly made bed, no sign of life. The next door was a bathroom, then Wes’s master bedroom. Only when one door remained did King slow, and not because it was last. No, it was the footprints he finally noticed on the blond hardwood floor that slowed him down. Red footprints. Bloody footprints heading toward him in the hall.
Wes, oh God, what have you done?
He hadn’t realized he was still jogging until he almost fell rounding the door into what he knew immediately was Wes’s home study. The room was rich with dark wood and colors, lit only by large windows that opened onto a back garden King would’ve envied if he’d had time to take in the details more thoroughly. Instead his focus latched on to the massive oak desk at the opposite end of the room. Wes’s desk. Where Wes sat. His cousin occupied the large leather chair centered behind the desk, his hands resting on the padded armrests, his head tilted to one side, eyes closed as if asleep. “Wes?”
King crept closer.
“Wes?” The word shook, but King tried again. “Wes? Wake up, bro. Wake up.”
The final word trailed off as he came up against the side of the desk. From here he could see a small, neat hole in his cousin’s temple. Red-rimmed. Black shadowing mottled the skin. He knew what he’d see if he rounded the chair, but he didn’t. This side was hard enough; he didn’t want his final memories of his cousin to be his shattered skull.
“Wes, wake up,” he whispered, but he knew it was futile.
Wes wouldn’t wake up again.
King’s legs gave out. His knees hitting the floor jostled the chair, and a thunk beneath the desk had King glancing down. A Ruger SR22 lay on the floor between Wes’s Italian leather shoes.
A gun. The gun Wes had used to kill himself.
Wes had killed himself.
The keening cry that escaped was beyond his control. So was the way he grasped Wes’s suit in one hand and cradled the back of his head with the other. The blood didn’t register, nor the way Wes’s body flopped toward him, all consciousness gone. All King knew was that he held his cousin securely in his arms. Safe. Close.
For the very last time.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
King ended his call and turned to Dain and Saint, both of whom stood close, their broad shoulders cutting him off from the rest of the room, the emergency personnel running up and down the stairs, the local security speaking to the police in the opposite corner. All of it too much when he felt like he could shatter at any second.
“They’re on their way,” he said hoarsely.
“That’s good.” Dain’s tone was hushed, keeping their conversation private. “It’s good that they heard it from you, not a stranger.”
Warren hadn’t questioned why King was telling him his son was dead. He’d been in too much shock. Too much pain. Like a coward, King had been glad not to be the one to tell Christy. He couldn’t imagine a mother’s pain at the loss of a child. A family’s pain.
Or at least, he’d never been able to before. Now…
God, Wes. Why did you do this?
He wanted to be angry, wanted to scream and cry and fight with his cousin until Wes came to his senses. And every time the impulse hit him, it threw him back on his heels. Wes wasn’t here to scream at anymore. He couldn’t fight. Couldn’t explain. Because Wes was gone.
Dead.
He wasn’t certain how long he stood there, staring into space. Dain and Saint didn’t push, just shared the silence, giving him strength. They waited as his thoughts circled until he finally spoke.
“He didn’t leave a note.”
It wasn’t like Wes; at least, King didn’t think it was. Lawyers had an overwhelming drive to argue, didn’t they? To explain? But Wes had left them with nothing. Why?
“Some people don’t,” Saint said.
“But most people do,” Dain pointed out. “There was nothing on the desk?”
“I didn’t go through the files, but I didn’t see anything obvious,” King said. The desk had been cluttered with work, but nothing that had looked like a personal note. Not even a typewritten letter. Maybe there was something on his computer? “I’m not sure if he’d feel compelled to explain to his parents—they love each other, but tend to be less demonstrative. If he was depressed, angry…” Wes hadn’t seemed to be stuck in either of those emotions. “He might not have bothered for their sakes, but Hugh…Charlotte…” How the hell could he explain this to Charlotte? “I don’t see him doing this without leaving Charlotte an explanation.”
“Maybe he would have if she hadn’t dumped him on his ass.”
King jerked his head up to meet Hugh’s glaring eyes over Dain’s shoulder. “Hugh.”
Dain and Saint turned, opening their circle to Wes’s brother. Opening King to attack. Hugh took immediate advantage, rushing to get right in King’s face. “You did this to him!”
King backed up until his spine hit the wall, Hugh following with every step. “I didn’t do anything to Wes.”
“Not directly, but you did something to Charlotte, didn’t you?” Hugh’s leer made his meaning obvious. “He told me everything. How she said she’d always be his friend. How she cried when she apologized for not loving him like she loved you.” Hugh poked a finger hard into King’s sternum, the bruising pain barely breaking through King’s numbness. “You’re the reason he took out that gun, pointed it, and pulled the trigger. You!”
No. God, no.
Dain gripped Hugh’s shoulder and dragged him backward, giving King space to drag in nonexistent air. “You know King isn’t to blame for this,” he argued.
Hugh whirled on the bigger man. “Do I?”
Saint’s eyes were narrowed on King’s cousin. “When did he tell you all this, Hugh?” he asked quietly.
Hugh glared at the three of them in turn, his body quivering with emotion, before speaking. “He called me after he spoke to her this morning.”
Saint nodded. Hugh opened his mouth to speak, but Warren and Christy arrived then, their swollen eyes and devastated faces another one-two punch to King’s gut.
Hugh was right. King had done this. If Wes had committed suicide because he’d lost his chance with Charlotte…how could King not be to blame?
He stood, helpless, unable to reach guilty hands out to hug his aunt and uncle. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Christy broke down. Warren gathered her against him, his face grim, but when he met King’s eyes, there was no malice there. “You saw him?” he choked out.
Held him. Railed at him for doing this. “I did.”
“Was he… Did he…did he suffer?” Warren asked, gaze begging for a no.
King gave it to him. “No, he didn’t.” Whatever had caused the agony that drove Wes to this must have been excruciating, but physically… “He didn’t suffer.”
An officer cleared his throat, drawing their attention. “Ma’am, sirs?” He waited until all of them turned in his direction. “We need to ask you to wait outside while the…while Mr. Moncrief is removed, please.”
Christy broke into a fresh set of tears. Dain herded the family through the living space, and Saint herded King. His feet moved automatically, his mind centered on the stairs leading up to Wes, not the door leading outside. But Saint kept him on the right path, and next thing he knew, he was standing outside with the breeze cooling his heated face and scratchy eyes. He made it about five steps before he stopped and faced the door.
“King.”
He shook his head at Saint’s urging. “I need to see him. I need to watch.” Stand witness to the final moments of his cousin’s body, if not his soul. Lord willing, Wes’s soul was somewhere far, far more beautiful than here by now.
Saint took position behind his shoulder and waited with him
. About ten minutes later, the sound of rattling and metal bumping wood and walls reached them. King braced himself, determined to do Wes right.
One attendant backed through the front door, pulling a gurney behind him draped in a long gray plastic bag. A body-shaped bag. Before they could pass, King stepped forward.
“Excuse me, sir, please—”
“Just a moment,” King said, the words rough but determined. “Please.”
The attendant at the head of the gurney nodded, and both stepped a few paces away.
Careful not to touch the bag, not wanting to disturb anything the coroner might need to see, he bent over his cousin’s body. “Wes…” His throat swelled shut, and he closed his eyes, coughed against the obstruction. Words formed behind his lips. Not accusations, not waling questions. None of those things were important right now. Only one thing was. “I love you, bro. Always.”
Stepping back, he watched as the gurney made its journey toward the transport. One more stop for Warren and Christy and Hugh, who glared King down the whole time, and then Wes was gone.
“What the hell have I done?” King whispered.
Dain heard the question as he approached, and reached for King’s shoulder. “You haven’t done anything, King. Charlotte never belonged to Wes, and Wes knew that.” His mouth twisted, his eyes unfocused as he seemed to consider his own words.
“That’s what confuses me too,” Saint said, voice low to keep it from carrying.
King had to admit he wasn’t tracking all that well. “What confuses you?”
The three of them moved toward their cars, still parked haphazardly near the curb. “We’ve spent a bit of time with Wes,” Saint said, “but I don’t know him well enough to know if he’d call his brother about a woman or not. Do you, King?”
Trying to focus, King considered the question, then shook his head. “It’s been too long. They seemed close enough last night at the charity event. No animosity, at least. And they walked out together.”
Saint cleared his throat. “Hugh might also be totally offtrack,” he pointed out. “If what we learned this morning is true, the person behind all this knows we’re closing in. Arnold says that person is Wes. She might be lying, but…Wes also might have simply been trying to escape the consequences of his actions.”
Deny Me (Southern Nights Enigma Book 4) Page 18
