Beneath These Chains

by Meghan March

  The conversation still played vividly in my head: “Disappointed? How can you of all people be disappointed? I’m just taking after you by solving my problems with a bottle.”

  My words had been followed by her sharp inhale, the sting of her palm across my face, and Denton’s eyes lighting with approval.

  I’d never forget that look on his face—or hers.

  Because she’d looked like I’d slapped her right back.

  Over ten years of ugliness on both sides … spawned by a man we’d both loved and lost.

  He would have been so disappointed in us both.

  My tears fell faster, but this time they were washing away the bitterness instead of letting it fester. I was done holding it in. It was time to let it all go. Time to start over. I had one parent left, and I’d already wasted over a decade caught up in the past.

  Time was fleeting. Nothing was guaranteed. I could just as easily lose my mother, and with that, my chance to repair everything between us.

  Lord’s hand stroked my hair and my back as my tears quieted. I lifted my head and began wiping them away. I didn’t even care how I must’ve looked.

  Lord stilled my hands and slid his thumbs along my cheeks, catching the tears I’d missed.

  “We’re going to get through this, Elle. I swear to you. I will not let another one of your tears fall without putting myself on the line to stop it from happening again.”

  This man. What did I do to deserve this man?

  “I love you,” I said. “I don’t deserve you, but I love you.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Lord said, lowering his lips to press against my forehead. “You deserve everything—and I’m going to give it all to you.”

  I bit my lip. “If you keep saying things like that, I’m going to cry again.”

  “You’re going to have to figure out how to handle it, because I guarantee it’s not the last time I’m going to say it.”

  I hugged him tighter before pulling away. I stood straighter, stronger, and not feeling nearly as broken as I had only minutes before. I had a renewed sense of purpose. A renewed sense of hope.

  Lord’s hand slid down my arm and threaded through my fingers. He brought it to his mouth and pressed his lips to my knuckles.

  “How about we clean this place up?” he asked.

  I surveyed the room and the shards of glass.

  It was time to start picking up the pieces … for good this time.

  We cleaned up the library in silence, but it was a silence filled with purpose and not despair. Elle was already pulling herself together, and I was impressed as hell.

  When we finished, I asked her what she wanted to do.

  “I have to stay. I can’t leave her.”

  “You want to stay the night? Or just for the rest of the day?”

  Elle released a long breath. “I really should stay the night, probably.”

  “I’ll get your bag out of the car.” It was the one she’d packed and had waiting when I’d picked her up this morning. “The rest of your stuff is at the house, though. You tell me what you need, and I’ll get it for you and run it back.”

  She snuggled into my chest. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

  “You never need to thank me for being here for you. It’s my privilege, not a burden.” I pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

  Elle pulled back, her smile wobbly again.

  “No more tears, sweet thing.”

  She nodded. “I’m good. I promise.” She paused before adding, “I left my purse at the shop. It’s in the office. Do you mind getting it?”

  “Of course. Anything you need.” I pressed another kiss to her forehead before releasing her and turning toward to the hallway. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Before I hit the kitchen, the doorbell rang again. Margaux hurried to the door.

  “Detective, was there something else you needed?”

  Fuck. Hennessy. My earlier thoughts came back in a rush.

  The door opened wider, and Hennessy shoved a guy who looked to be in his mid-twenties into the house. The kid stumbled, but righted himself before face planting on the floor of the foyer.

  “What in the world?” Margaux hissed.

  “DJ?” That came from Elle. Which meant this was the stepbrother.

  His shirt was untucked and soaked down the front.

  “A unit picked him up in a bar fight about twenty minutes ago. They called me because they recognized the name from today’s … events. I thought I’d deliver him home rather than toss him in the drunk tank.”

  Damn. The kid worked fast. He was wasted.

  I wasn’t sure if he’d mainlined moonshine, or what, but I could smell the booze coming off him from where I stood.

  Margaux was ringing her hands, and I stepped up. “Where’s his room? Hennessy and I will get him up there.”

  Elle led the way up the stairs to a bedroom at the far end of the hall and pushed it open. We dumped the kid on the bed. Margaux fussed, pulling off his shoes and yanking the covers out from beneath him.

  No one said anything.

  No muttered comments about his behavior, which we all recognized as a kid going off the rails because he just lost his dad. Again, it made me think about Elle and what she’d been through.

  Hennessy and Elle followed me back downstairs. I paused by the front door and pulled her against my side.

  I reached out my hand to Hennessy. “Thanks for that.”

  “Sure. Kid’s having a bad fucking day.” He reached for the door handle. “You want to walk me out, Lord?”

  I looked down at Elle. “Want me to stay for a while before I get your stuff?”

  She bit her lip and considered. “What would you say about staying here tonight with me? When you get back?”

  “Of course. I’ll hurry.” She rose on her toes to press a kiss to my jaw.

  “I’ll see you in a little bit then.”

  Hennessy pulled open the door, and I trailed him outside. As soon as the latch clicked behind me, I dove in. No use beating around the bush.

  “Was it the same as the other two?”

  “I can’t give you anything that’s not already public, but since this one’s a mess because the guy who found him posted a pic on Facebook, I can tell you he was shot in the back. No ID on the gun yet.”

  “Fuck.”

  “You know this looks bad, right?” Hennessy said, fixing his stare on me.

  “You think I don’t know that? I’ve got alibis for the others, so there’s no way you’re looking at me for this. When the hell was he killed anyway? You got a time of death so I can get you yet another alibi?”

  “Last night. Around eleven. You’re the only solid tie I’ve got to all three, man. I’m coming up empty otherwise.”

  “You want to bring me in for questioning a third time to make you feel better? I didn’t fucking kill them, and I don’t know who did.”

  “I suggest you think hard, because this shit just got a hell of a lot more high profile now that we’ve got a white lawyer who was murdered. Bree and Jiminy? No one cared about them … but this guy? He’s news. And it’s going to come back on your shop and your girl if the firearms ID supports what I’m thinking. And I’d hate to have it come back her.”

  Hennessy’s words chilled my blood. “She’s got no motive. You leave her out of this.”

  He stopped beside his car door. “It was her stepdad, and from what I’m hearing, they didn’t get along.”

  I grabbed him by the arm. “She didn’t have a fucking thing to do with any of it. So you step off that path right the fuck now.”

  He shook me off and straightened his suit jacket. “I have to do my job, and if that bothers you, it ain’t my problem. If she didn’t do it, she’s got nothing to worry about.”

  “Yeah, because the fucking justice system is so perfect.”

  Hennessy yanked open the door to his sedan and climbed in. “I’ll be in touch, Lord.”

  I collected a
few more of Elle’s things from my place, and headed for the shop. I needed to throw off this mood before I got back to her, because fuck, I needed my head on straight before I explained that she might have to answer some really uncomfortable questions. The thought of her sitting in the interview room like I had, facing Hennessy, was not something I wanted to see happen.

  It was already after closing, so the place was dark and empty. I unlocked the back door, and slipped inside, hitting the light as I made my way to the office.

  I pulled open the filing cabinet drawer where Elle always left her purse. It was a big white thing, with silver chain handles. I lifted it, shut the drawer, and turned to leave.

  The chain got stuck on the filing cabinet handle and jerked me to a halt as it tilted sideways and spilled the entire contents.

  “Shit.”

  The thunk caught my attention first.

  In the middle of the change, tampons, wallet, and makeup scattered on the floor was Elle’s gun.

  Fuck. I was lucky the thing didn’t misfire. I grabbed it off the floor and pulled back the slide to pop the round out of the chamber. And froze.

  It was a .32 ACP.

  Hennessy’s words echoed in my head.

  The bullet.

  That Elle was the only one with ties to all of them.

  No. Fucking. Way.

  She had no motive.

  At least not for Bree and Jiminy.

  But her stepdad … last night. She’d stayed at her apartment.

  No. No fucking way.

  I grabbed the gun.

  I was going to prove it.

  It was almost ten, and Lord hadn’t shown up. And stupid me—my phone was in my purse, and his number was on my phone. How shitty was it that I didn’t know my boyfriend’s phone number? Hobbled by technology.

  Boyfriend.

  I had a boyfriend. And I was totally cool with that … at least I was when I wasn’t freaking out about every bad thing that could’ve possibly happened to him. An accident, or … what if whoever had killed Bree and Jiminy had somehow gotten to Lord?

  No. Lord can handle himself. Always.

  And I wasn’t going to lose him just when I’d found him.

  He’d changed everything for me—everything.

  I sat in my mother’s house, in the library, not feeling claustrophobic and antsy for the first time since she’d moved into it. I was working on a plan to carefully explain the treatment center so we could get her help. I was making lists of things I could do for the funeral to take the weight off her. The wedge between us? I was determined to pull it free and bridge the gap.

  For the first time in as long as I could remember, I was being a good daughter—and not out of guilt or obligation—but because I genuinely wanted to carry her burdens until she was strong enough to carry them herself.

  And she would be. I would do everything in my power to make it happen. And Lord would be standing beside me, there for me to lean on when things got too heavy.

  If I could just find him.

  I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

  I pushed up from the chair and paced toward the empty hearth. What were my options?

  I couldn’t call him.

  But I could go looking for him.

  Arnie was gone for the night. Margaux had left an hour ago. So … I could call a cab … or … my stepdad’s Porsche was parked in the garage.

  Do I really want to do this?

  Fear was growing inside me with every passing minute that something horrible had happened to Lord.

  “Fuck it,” I said to the empty room. “I’m going.”

  I hustled to the kitchen—directly to the key rack on the wall. There was only one Porsche key, so I snagged it and pushed open the door to the garage.

  All silver and sleek lines, even I could admit that my stepdad’s car was really pretty.

  And then I remembered I didn’t have my purse.

  “Driving for the first time in over a decade and with no license. Way to be a rebel, Elle.”

  But wherever Lord was, I’d find my purse. And he’d be so freaking proud that I’d clawed back this piece of myself.

  If he’s okay … my brain whispered.

  He had to be okay. No other alternative was remotely acceptable. My fears were totally irrational. I was not going to lose another important person in my life.

  Tenacity flooded me as I opened the door of the Porsche and slid into the black leather seat. After adjusting the mirrors and locating the button for the garage door, I inserted the key into the ignition and turned it. The car purred to life. Sucking in a deep breath, I shifted out of park.

  The car coasted out of the garage and onto the driveway.

  See, just like riding a bike. I got this. I shifted into gear and followed the curving driveway out to the road. I didn’t even clip the mailbox—points for me. But where the hell did I start? The idea of going to Chains this late at night—driving a freaking Porsche—didn’t seem like the best plan ever. So I’d go to Lord’s first, and then to Chains if I couldn’t find him. I better freaking find him.

  Within miles, I was calling myself a crazy woman for not getting over my hang up sooner. I loved how the Porsche handled and the freedom of it.

  Hello, my name is Elle Snyder, and I’m hunting down the pieces of my life and putting them back together one by one.

  I turned down Lord’s street and slowed as I neared his house, before pulling into his empty driveway.

  Shit.

  I’d been so damn sure of how this would unfold—he’d be inside, fussing over what stuff I wanted him to bring me, and he’d be shocked that I’d shown up on my own, and then he’d be totally proud. But apparently that wasn’t how it was going to go down.

  I guessed my next stop was Chains.

  I looked up into the rear view mirror, my eyes catching on the apartments across the street—and the sexy black ’Cuda parked near the entrance—and my hand froze over the gearshift.

  I stood at the door, guts twisted into knots.

  I wanted to be wrong.

  I’d done a lot of shit in my life, but accusing someone of murder … that was a first, even for me. It’d taken a good hour of sitting in the garage at Chains, thinking about how to deal with this before I’d finally pulled away.

  The door opened.

  “Come on in, man. You just gonna stand there on the rug and take up space? It’s been for-fucking-ever since you came over to shoot the shit,” Mathieu said.

  The word shoot was sobering, and the gun tucked into the back of my jeans weighed down my mood even more.

  Mathieu picked up on my unusually sober expression.

  “Dude, you look like someone stole your girl. Everything cool?” He strode to the fridge and pulled it open, snagging two beers by the necks.

  I studied him like I’d never seen him before. His T-shirt and jeans hung on his lanky frame, no visible ink, hair buzzed even shorter than mine. He’d come a long way from the kid who’d run into Chains and grabbed a guitar and tried to run out the door. I couldn’t get the words out. What if I was wrong? Then what?

  But I wasn’t wrong. Except for Elle, there were no other suspects. I didn’t know where she’d been during any of the murders, but there was no way in hell I’d believe she could have done something like that.

  No, Mathieu had killed at least two—likely three—people … with Elle’s gun.

  The discovery I’d made in my amateur firearms ID lab in the basement of Chains had rocked me. Elle’s gun was a .32ACP, and the round I’d test fired had matched the striations on the picture of the bullet I’d snapped when Hennessy had left Jiminy’s file on the table during my last visit to the station for questioning. They’d already determined that the bullet from Jiminy’s murder matched the gun used in Bree’s. The ID wasn’t completed on the bullet from Denton’s murder, but I’d bet my pawnshop that Mathieu had killed him too. What I didn’t understand was—why?

  He crossed the five o
r so feet between the fridge and me and handed me a bottle. I made no move to pop the top—or scold him for underage drinking. Mathieu stepped back and leaned against the counter.

  “Seriously, man, what’s goin’ on?” Mathieu’s brow furrowed.

  I started the only way I knew how. “Elle’s stepdad is dead.”

  “That so?” Mathieu shrugged, completely indifferent. “Must’ve had it comin’.”

  I held back the why the fuck did you do it? clawing out of my throat and decided on a different tactic.

  “They’re looking at Elle for it. I had to talk Hennessy out of dragging her down to the station an hour ago to start questioning her.”

  Mathieu’s grip on his bottle tightened. “Why the fuck would they be looking at her for it? That girl couldn’t hurt a goddamn fly.” His tone was adamant, his nostrils flaring.

  I pulled the unloaded gun from the waistband of my jeans and laid it on the kitchen island between us.

  “Because her gun was the murder weapon.”

  Mathieu’s eyes darted from the gun to mine and held. He slammed his bottle on the counter. “Then you better fucking get rid of it.”

  The time for bullshit was over. “Why? Just tell me why?”

  I wasn’t sure what I expected him to say, but it wasn’t what came out of his mouth next.

  “You know why. You’ve known all along. What I want to know is why you look so fucking surprised. This is how shit works on the street. You know it. I know it. Just because I’m livin’ the good life doesn’t mean I don’t know how to take care of my own.”

  “I don’t know shit, Mathieu.”

  He crossed his arms, confusion creasing his features.

  “How could you think I’d let Bree disrespect you that way? Or Jiminy? He was a piece of shit from the beginning, and you saw the way he looked at your girl. He wasn’t gonna leave her alone. He dug his own fucking grave.”

  Bile rose up in my throat. Mathieu—the kid I’d been trying to keep on the straight and narrow and out of fucking prison—had done this for … me.

  Death wasn’t new to me. I’d seen plenty. But this … I couldn’t even grasp what he was saying. There had to be some kind of mistake. All of it had to be a mistake.