by Rose, Callie
“Let’s give it a week, all right? I’ll just make sure you’re keeping your part of the bargain and not talking to anyone you shouldn’t. As long as you do that, I’ll start working on securing a plea deal for your mother.”
“Fine.”
It’s the last word I say to him before I hurry down the walkway, slip into my car, and escape.
19
The guys are waiting for me about a mile away, sitting in Lincoln’s car on a side street in the opposite direction from the route Judge Hollowell will probably take to the courthouse.
I texted them as soon as I pulled out of Hollowell’s driveway to let them know I was okay. If they’d had their way, they would’ve been camped right outside his house, loaded up with baseball bats and brass knuckles, ready to rush in and save me if things went south.
But we couldn’t risk it. We couldn’t risk Hollowell thinking my visit was about anything other than accepting defeat.
When I slide into the back seat of Linc’s car, everyone turns to stare at me, and horror is written across all of their faces.
“Fuck, Low,” River breathes, sounding tortured. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I swipe at my eyes again. Even if it was for show, the emotions I conjured up were entirely real, and I feel hungover from my hard cry. “It worked.”
“You got a window open?” Linc asks. Hot anger burns in his irises as he takes in my puffy face, but he keeps his voice steady.
I nod. “It’s just a crack. I couldn’t do any more, since I’m sure he probably went back to check the room after I left. It’s barely noticeable, but it should be enough to open it from the outside without setting off alarms.”
I hope.
“Okay.” Dax’s face is grim. “We called to confirm the court cases being heard today, and he’s due in court by ten. So we’ve got about an hour before he leaves.”
We wait two.
Each minute ticks by with agonizing slowness, and Linc moves his car several times, just to make sure no one notices us loitering suspiciously and calls the cops. At a little after eleven, I catch his gaze and nod. We can’t wait any longer. We need to be sure Hollowell is out of the house, but if we wait too long, we risk getting caught when he returns.
There’s no gate blocking the driveway of his house. The wall around his property seems to be intended more for privacy than as a deterrent to trespassers—but I did notice a security camera mounted on the wall, angled to capture the driveway.
So we park a few blocks away and walk, then climb over the wall in the same spot the guys did when they spied on him a few weeks ago. Hollowell seems to consider himself an outdoorsy man; his property is heavily wooded, probably so he can imagine he’s living in some remote hunting lodge or something.
But it works out well for us, because there are plenty of trees to use for cover as we creep silently toward the house, communicating only by gestures and low whispers. It’s warmed up in the past few days, but there’s still some snow on the ground—just little patches here and there where it piled up the thickest and was the slowest to melt. We make sure to avoid those parts, not wanting to leave any obvious footprints or disturbances.
I spot the bathroom windows as we round the side of the large, sleek house, and my heart clutches in my chest. This is it. If Hollowell realized I opened it, or if I didn’t open it wide enough, our plan will crash to an abrupt halt right now.
Tugging on River’s hand to make sure I have his attention, I murmur, “The farthest one on the right.”
He nods once, and the five of us make our way slowly toward the house. We scanned for cameras and couldn’t see any that captured this angle, but I still move at a low crouch.
River reaches the window first, and my entire body tenses as he touches the glass, half expecting the ear-splitting screech of an alarm to blast through the air.
But the yard stays quiet and still.
And the window doesn’t move.
Fuck.
Fucking ball sucking motherfucker.
Did Hollowell notice it after all? Did he close it? Or did I just not open it enough?
I tap River’s shoulder. “Let me try.”
He nods and shifts out of the way so I can approach the window. It looks completely closed, but I use my fingernails to try to latch onto the bottom edge of the pane.
For a moment, nothing happens. Then the pane of glass shifts upward.
My insides seem to liquify with relief, and I push a little harder, forcing the window open about three inches.
“Boost. Give me a boost.”
Almost before I finish saying the words, four sets of hands converge on me, lifting me effortlessly in the air until I’m level with the window. I’m pretty sure Chase is the one palming my ass, and if I weren’t about to pass out from nerves, I’d probably enjoy this quite a bit.
Trusting them to hold me up, I use the better leverage to lift the window even higher. When it’s wide enough to fit through, the guys help me clamber through the open space.
It’s not graceful at all, but I get inside without falling or disturbing anything in the bathroom, so I’ll take it.
I turn around to help the guys inside, and they boost each other from the yard outside until those of us inside the bathroom outnumber the ones left outside. Chase comes last, scrambling up the side of the house as the guys pull him through the window.
When we’re all safely inside, I close the window so we don’t let a bunch of cold air in—I don’t know if Hollowell would notice that, but I don’t want to tip him off that anything is amiss.
Brushing off my hands, I jerk my head toward the bathroom door. I didn’t notice any cameras inside Hollowell’s house the two times I was here, and although I wasn’t looking for them the first time, I definitely was the second.
I thought that was a little strange at first—after all, Linc’s dad has security cameras inside their house. But then it occurred to me that maybe a man who was sleeping with an underage girl wouldn’t want his every move recorded, even if it was by his own security system.
Of course, it’s possible he has hidden cameras I didn’t see. But we just need to take that risk and hope we find something useful enough to justify it. Some hint at whatever other reason Hollowell might’ve had for killing Iris.
“Look for an office or a study or something,” I murmur as we slip into the hallway. “Anywhere he’d keep important stuff.”
It’s a long shot, maybe. But I’m still convinced there was something else going on that made Hollowell kill the blonde cheerleader. Something more than her pregnancy.
Poking around in Samuel Black’s study is what led me to the birth certificate proving that his infidelity had resulted in a baby and that the child was his, although at the time, I thought it was about Linc. I’m hoping we’ll be able to find something like that here. Something Hollowell wants to keep hidden.
We creep through the house like ghosts, but we don’t find anything promising on the first floor. I keep glancing at the time on my phone, acutely aware of every minute as it passes.
On the second floor, we finally come across what looks like a home office—a large room with a massive mahogany desk and wide windows that flood the room with natural light. The file drawer is locked, but River finds a key in the top desk drawer, and my heart jumps when it works. We grab files out as quickly as we can, flipping through them before putting them back right where we found them.
Most of it is incredibly boring. Legal documents and records of bill payments and things like that.
I’m starting to wonder if we’ll even recognize anything “off” if we see it. I don’t know enough legalese to interpret half the shit I’m reading.
Come on, you fucker. Come on. There has to be something.
Goddammit. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Judge Hollowell just reacted strangely when I said he killed Iris for getting pregnant because he didn’t expect me to know about the baby.
But I swear, I saw it in his eyes.
Surprise.
Maybe even something like guilt.
And then relief.
There’s something else he’s covering up.
“Last two files,” Chase murmurs, dragging my attention back to the room as he pulls out two folders, handing one over to River.
I cast my gaze down at the filing cabinet, closing the file I’m holding. We’ve been here for almost two hours, and we’re starting to push our luck.
But we can’t go yet.
“You guys go through anything else you can find in here,” I whisper. “I’m going to see if I can find his bedroom.”
Linc immediately straightens. “I’ll go with you.”
I nod, and the two of us head toward the door. We’re almost there when River’s voice stops us.
“Wait.”
My gaze jerks toward him, my head moving so fast I almost give myself whiplash. He’s staring down at the open file in his hand, his brows furrowed as if he’s trying to translate the contents into another language.
“What?” I ask as Linc and I change course, heading back toward the others. “What is it?”
He doesn’t see my lips move. He’s so caught up in what he’s looking at that he doesn’t track the activity around him like he normally does. He chews on his lip and shakes his head, and when he looks up, I step forward and repeat the question, craning my neck to see what’s on the paper he’s studying so intently.
My heart falls.
It’s just a receipt from a dry cleaner. A refund, it looks like. I don’t know what River’s seeing that’s made him go so still and quiet.
I nudge his shoulder, dipping my head to catch his eye. My heart is beating out the milliseconds like a metronome set too high, echoing the nervous energy I can feel coming off him in waves.
“River. What?”
He blinks, still looking stunned and scared.
“Look at the amount.”
I glance back down at the paper, and my eyes practically pop out of my head. I didn’t even register it at first because no legit dry cleaner would ever give anyone this amount of money. It’s insane.
When I shift my gaze to River, he reads the expression on my face and nods grimly. “I know the name on the bottom too. Niles D’Amato. I’ve seen my dad talk about him with his lawyer buddies. He runs a drug trafficking ring that moves opiates through Connecticut.”
My mouth opens, and my gaze flies back to the papers in River’s hand.
Holy fuck.
In that context, the amount of money listed on this receipt takes on a whole new meaning. Why the hell is Judge Hollowell accepting “refunds” from a known drug trafficker?
Is this what got Iris killed? Did she find out about it?
My skin prickles as it hits me how much danger we’re all in. I don’t know what I was hoping to find up here, what I was expecting. But it wasn’t this. And if Hollowell killed Iris to keep this quiet, there’s no reason to think he wouldn’t do the same to us.
“Is there anything else in there?” I catch River’s eye and jerk my chin toward the file he’s holding.
He shakes his head. “No. Nothing that seems important. Everything else is just records of car payments. He either stuck this in here by accident or hid it in here on purpose.”
Lincoln makes a soft noise, and when I glance at him, he has almost the same look on his face River did before. Like he’s sorting through a series of disconnected images in his head, trying to piece them together so they form a cohesive picture.
Then something shifts in his expression, and his eyes harden like twin pieces of amber.
“Fuck. I know that name too.” He looks at River. “Bring that. We gotta get out of here.”
20
It’s a risk, taking the document with evidence connecting Judge Hollowell to a criminal drug ring. But I don’t trust a picture on a phone—although we each take one as backup. I’ve seen how easily that kind of evidence can be deleted with the swipe of a finger, and I feel better having something solid in my hand.
We put everything back in order, careful to leave no evidence of our presence. Then we slip downstairs and crowd into the large bathroom on the first floor.
I glance in the mirror as we pass by the sink, and it feels like a lifetime ago that I let the water run from the tap while Judge Hollowell waited outside. The evidence of my tears has faded from my face, although I still look haggard and exhausted.
The guys lower me down first, then crawl out the window one by one before boosting me up to pull it closed. It’s harder to get it tight this time, but I close it as much as I can, gripping the glass with my fingertips. Finally, there’s just a small sliver between the window and the frame.
All told, we were inside Judge Hollowell’s house for just over two hours, but it’s the last few seconds of sprinting across his lawn that are the most terrifying. We make it over the wall and return to Lincoln’s car, and as soon as we’re inside, he guns the engine and peels out.
His face is a mask of concentration as he careens around a corner. He’s driving too fast, definitely over the speed limit, but none of us tell him to slow down. I’m having flashbacks of the first time I left Hollowell’s house, of rounding a snow-covered corner at breakneck speed.
“Holy fuck.” Dax shakes his head. I’m sandwiched between him and Chase in the back seat, with River up front next to Linc, and I can feel his body shaking with latent adrenaline. Mine is too. “I can’t believe Hollowell’s in bed with these fucking guys.”
“It makes sense.” River’s turned sideways in his seat so he can watch both us and Linc. “Being tied up with a drug trafficking ring may not be as bad as murder, but I can see how it’d be a motive for one. If Iris found out and mentioned it to the wrong people, it could’ve ruined his career. Ruined his life.”
“So he killed her,” I murmur, pity for my old nemesis rising in my chest. “I bet she had no fucking idea the kind of person she was involved with. I wonder if she even knew what she knew. Maybe she didn’t think anything of the name. I didn’t recognize it, why the hell would she?”
“Yeah, but Hollowell wouldn’t take that chance,” River says starkly, and a sharp blade of fear slips between my ribs.
No. He wouldn’t. He didn’t.
He’s the kind of guy who likes things wrapped up in a neat little bow, no loose ends.
And the second we broke into his house—hell, even before that—we all became loose ends.
Chase leans up toward the front, sticking his head between the seats to peer at Linc. “Hey. How the hell do you know that name, dude? Niles D’Amato?”
“My dad.”
A new kind of shock almost stops my heart, and my gaze flies to Lincoln. He catches my horrified stare in the rearview mirror and shakes his head.
“Not like that. Thank fuck. Dad’s an asshole sometimes, but he’s not mixed up in that kind of shit.” He shifts his eyes back to the road, but I can see tension drawn in every line of his shoulders. “I told you guys my dad donated a shitload of money to Hollowell’s election campaign. He’s still trying to come up with ways not to get totally screwed when the divorce and his blackmail situation come to light. He donated to the campaign because Hollowell promised him a major coup—that having his name associated with the campaign would save his reputation.”
“What? How?” My brows knit together. I’m not seeing how this has anything to do with the receipt River found.
“Hollowell promised that the greatest accomplishment of his political career would be taking down the drug ring run by Niles D’Amato.”
The car goes silent at that, nothing but the screech of tires filtering into the small space as Linc speeds up to cut through a yellow light.
My heart presses up into my throat, and I can’t tell if it’s because of Linc’s driving or the words he just said. Or maybe this whole damn day.
“Holy fuck.” Chase finally lets out a low whistle. “So not only was he in bed with these guys, he’s planning to betray them.”
“That was
my thought too,” Linc says. “We don’t know what his exact connection to them has been, but obviously a good amount of money changed hands. Fuck, it’s even possible they financed his rise to prominence as a judge, wanting to have someone in place who’d let them walk if it came down to it.”
“But now Hollowell wants more.” River nods. “He wants to advance politically, and throwing them under the bus is the best way to achieve that. If he has some inside knowledge of their organization, he’d be positioned well to bring them down.”
“Holy fuck,” Chase repeats, scrubbing a hand down his face. “This shit is bonkers.”
“Yeah.” Linc snorts, glancing at his side mirror as he passes a slow moving Honda. “That’s one word for it.”
“So what the hell to we do?” The bronze-haired boy peers out the window at the passing landscape. “And where are we going?”
“I don’t know.” Lincoln shakes his head, slowing the car slightly. “I just wanted to get the hell away from Hollowell’s house.”
He glances in the rearview, scanning the area behind us as if he’s making sure we haven’t been followed, then turns off the larger main road and onto a side street. He pulls over and puts the car in park, but leaves the engine running. Then he turns to look at all of us.
“Hollowell’s been two moves ahead in the game this whole time. He’s powerful and connected enough that he’s managed to control this entire thing—pinning Iris’s death on Harlow’s mom and making sure Low won’t say anything about it. We could take this to Dunagan, but there’s no guarantee that Hollowell won’t use the dirty cops in his pocket to find a way to bury it. And he’ll sure as shit find a way to bury us too.”
A sick feeling of dread fills my stomach. Everything I’ve done for the past several months has been with the singular aim of getting my mom out of prison. She saved my life when I was a kid, and even though that’s a debt I can never repay, I wanted to give hers back to her.
But what if all my meddling, my poking around and peering into dark corners, has only made things exponentially worse?
