“Good,” Shay replied, nodding. “Don't forget it.”
“I won't.” Gina blinked quickly and Shay took a deep breath, forcing the lump down out of her throat.
“Alright. Good night, then,” Shay said, clearing her throat and smiling. Gina smiled back and for the first time that day, Shay didn't see any despair underneath her aunt's expression.
“Am I going to see you on the way to the bathroom tomorrow morning?” Gina asked, raising an eyebrow, trying one more time to get a straight answer out of her niece. “Or at the salon at eight sharp?”
“I'll just surprise you,” Shay said, not quite sure of the answer herself. “How about that?”
“Mm-hmm, okay Sugar,” Gina said, turning and heading down the hallway. Her laughter followed her and Shay couldn't help but smile wide. Her aunt knew her better than she did herself, she was well aware. She knew that she was probably crystal clear to her wiser aunt. But she wasn't going to get ahead of herself. She wasn't going to rush.
She was going to take it step by step and get her life right.
She owed it to her father. She owed it to herself. And she owed it to Tate.
***
It wasn't easy to walk into the police station. It took her a minute to work up the courage, in fact. It was hard, but she did it anyway. Shay's heart was beating a mile a minute as she walked to the counter and asked for Detective Ramirez. She knew in her mind that there was nothing they could do to her, no way they could lock her up, but it was still scary. It went against everything she'd always be taught to talk to the police and it didn't feel right. But then again, she knew she had to do it. She had to grow up and do the right thing.
And she needed answers.
“Miss Spears?” A female voice called out and she glanced up to find Detective Ramirez walking toward her, her face as blank as Tate's normally was. “I've been meaning to call you,” she said as she reached the desk.
“I needed a few days. But I'm willing to answer questions now. Whatever you want to know,” Shay said quickly, shoving her hands in her pockets so that she would have something to do.
“Do you mind?” Ramirez asked, gesturing her to follow her outside. “I need a smoke.” Shay nodded and obediently followed the female detective out of the stuffy building and back out onto the street. As soon as she was outside of the precinct, she felt infinitely better. She no longer felt like a vice was closing around her chest, that was for sure. Ramirez dug around in her pants pocket and pulled out a crumbled pack of smokes. “You want one?” Shay shook her head and glanced out toward the street as a city bus rumbled by. It was dark; the sun had already set. It was chilly too, but Shay hardly noticed.
“How was your holiday?” Shay said, feeling awkward as the detective lit her cigarette.
“I worked,” Ramirez said, blowing out a short, smoky breath.
“Tate did, too,” Shay said, shoving her hands in her pockets. Ramirez narrowed her eyes at Shay at the mention of Tate's name, like she was studying her. Shay didn't like being looked at like that, so she immediately changed the subject. “So what do you want to know?” Shay asked. Ramirez waved her smoke away, not breaking eye contact. Shay was used to such direct eye contact from Tate, so she didn't stand down. She just squared her shoulders and refused to be intimidated.
“A '64 Chevy Impala,” Ramirez replied after a moment.
“What?”
“A '64 Chevy Impala,” Ramirez repeated patiently. “How much do you think that would be worth in parts? On the street, I mean?”
“Is that a trick question?” Shay asked, furrowing her brow.
“Do you know the answer?”
“Maybe,” Shay said, crossing her arms over her chest. “How original was it? Under the hood?”
“Oh, I don't know,” Ramirez said, shrugging. “I didn't ask.”
“Well the value varies. But you know that,” Shay said carefully, watching the other woman take another puff.
“How valuable would a '64 Chevy Impala be to your father?” Ramirez asked, smoke hanging between them like a fog. “Hypothetically?”
“Well...” Shay spoke even more carefully. It was stupid, she knew that her father was dead. Still, speaking openly about his business felt wrong somehow. Like airing out dirty laundry that should have just been tossed in the trash. But she told herself to answer, because Tate would want her to cooperate, if for no other reason. “Probably about ten grand in parts. A lot more for an original 409 diesel quad.” Ramirez's eyes widened and Shay knew instantly she'd given away too much information. She was insanely knowledgable about old car parts, but no one needed to know that beyond Tate. “Hypothetically,” she added for good measure.
“So it would have been fairly difficult for someone like Sam Spears to simply walk by a '64 Chevy Impala if he saw one on the street?” Ramirez asked, narrowing her eyes as she took another drag of her cigarette. Shay let out a low breath and a shock of pain went through her chest at the memories of her father that bombarded her in that moment. She knew for a fact he would have seen nothing but dollar signs if he happened across a vintage car of that caliber on the street. Especially if he needed money.
“He needed money,” Shay heard herself saying. “That's why he was back in the city. To hit me up for money.” Her throat tightened up, trying to prevent her from spilling the information, but she still got the words out despite her body's protest.
“Did you give him any?”
“No,” Shay said, dropping her eyes to the street as she felt the sting of tears in her eyes. An hour ago, she would have said with confidence that she had absolutely no more tears to cry, that her tear ducts would have been dry as the Sahara. And yet, here she was, outside of a police precinct with a detective, about to cry her eyes out.
“So, your father was hard up for cash and he saw a goldmine, just sitting on the street,” Ramirez said, her voice lowering. “He tried to steal it and, when the owner caught him, they exchanged words. Eventually shots were fired.”
“What?” Shay glanced up at the other woman sharply.
“The owner of a '64 Impala came in a couple of hours ago,” Ramirez said through smoke. “He admitted to shooting a man he believed to be in the process of stealing his car. Two nights back. Gave a statement and everything.”
“Where is he now?” Shay heard the hint of hysteria in her voice. It dawned on her that she knew exactly what car Ramirez was talking about. She'd seen it around the neighborhood. And her father had died over it. He'd died as he lived, over a car. It was all so meaningless, and somehow, it was a lot less worse than what she was imagining but a lot more horrific as well. It was all so stupid. So preventable. The worse part was she'd suspected for two days that if she'd given her father the money, he would still be alive. Detective Ramirez had simply confirmed what she already knew.
“He's in lockup. We're waiting for word from the prosecutor's office on what charges will be filed. If any.”
“If any?! He shot my father in the street and then left him to die.”
“He'll most likely be charged. But don't worry about that right now. Just know that we have your father's killer in custody and it was an isolated incident.”
“Isolated incident?” Shay asked, her brain feeling sluggish. It was hard to concentrate. Ramirez took one last puff of her cigarette then tossed the butt to the ground and stomped on it.
“Wrong place, wrong time.” Ramirez said. “Sergeant Grayson seemed to be concerned that if the killer was specifically targeting your father, they may have reason to try to harm you or your aunt Gina. But now we know that isn't the case,” Ramirez continued. “Maybe that's a small comfort, maybe it's not.” Shay nodded vaguely, sniffling. Suddenly, she felt the cold temperature creeping under her skin and into her bones. She shivered even as she realized that Ramirez's words were a comfort, small as it was. Her father's death was meaningless, but the killer was behind bars. She couldn't save her father, but at least he wasn't just another nameless murder victim on the s
treets of Harlem. And Tate had been worried about it. He'd inquired about his death, tried to help even. Even if he didn't like her father, he still was involved. Suddenly, that felt ridiculously important. She twirled the diamond ring on her finger as she let it sink in. “You want to come in for coffee?” Ramirez asked, breaking the silence.
“No offense, but I never want to go back in there,” Shay blurted out, then remembered she was supposed to be trying to be cooperative. “Unless you have more questions?” she added.
“No, I think that's all for now,” Ramirez said, her eyes softer than before. Then she turned and walked back toward the precinct. Shay pulled her hood up over her hair, trying to think what she was going to do next. “Hey,” Ramirez suddenly called out and Shay glanced up at her. “Do you think that your father would have walked by that car whether he needed the money or not? You said he was nosing around for cash, but still. Would he have just ignored it, pretended he didn't see it?” Shay stared at the detective for what seemed like a long while, even though she knew the answer to the question immediately.
“No,” she said finally. “A '64 Impala?” She clicked her tongue and shook her head, smiling slightly as she imagined her father's face as he spied that rare jewel of a car, parked on the street and calling out for him like heroin called out for a junkie. “He used to say that cars are like women. Some are just too beautiful to pass up. He wouldn't have been able to help himself.”
“Hmm,” Ramirez said, thoughtfully. Then she nodded, like she'd gotten all the information she needed. “I'll be in touch, okay?” she said, and then turned and jogged up the precinct steps and disappeared into the building. Shay threw her head back and stared up at the milky night sky. Not one star was visible.
“Dammit, daddy,” she murmured, to no one but herself. It was some kind of perverse poetry, she supposed. At times during her childhood, she'd wondered if the cars were the only things important to him. She'd wondered if money and the rush of the chase, the rush of the steal, were all that he lived for. Now, she finally had her answer. He'd needed money, sure, but Ramirez was right. The money didn't matter. In the end, it all came down to his biggest weakness. He'd given up she and her mother for it, and ultimately, he'd given up his life. She realized the tears were dry in her eyes. She didn't feel like crying anymore. She was angry, sure, and sad. But she wasn't going to cry. She was done crying. Nodding to herself, she headed toward the subway, feeling so tired. She just wanted to go home. But she had one last stop first.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tate pummeled the bag in front of him, putting all of his focus on the way his gloves whack against the cracked, stained leather. He didn't want to think about anything else. He didn't want to think about going home to an empty apartment. He didn't want to think about his baby crying all alone by herself over her dead father. He didn't want to think about a whole hell of a lot of things. So he kept punching until sweat was running in rivulets down his face and his T-shirt was soaked with it. He kept punching until his muscles cried out in protest and he felt like he was going to pass the fuck out.
“I think it's dead,” Austin said from behind him and it snapped him out of his attack on the bag. With a low growl, he forced himself to stop. The bag swung back and forth limply until he caught it, steadying it against himself. His heart was pounding under his chest and his breath was coming hard and fast. “What did that bag ever do to you, huh?” Austin asked, an easy smile on his face but genuine concern behind his gaze. He held out a bottled water. Tate took it and pressed the cool plastic against his forehead. “Spot me,” Austin said, plopping down on a nearby weight bench.
Tate nodded, then opened the water and downed half of it in one gulp. He tossed the bottle on the ground as Austin laid back, angling himself under the bar. His mind wandered elsewhere as Austin did his reps. He didn't think about Shay – everytime his mind went there, he pushed himself back and away from the topic. Instead, he thought about one of the cases he currently was assigned. He ran through all the minute, mindless details. He already knew the case front and back, but he overviewed the facts anyway. Austin strained and grunted below him and Tate knew his reps were up. He helped guide the bar back into the hoists and the bench shook with the exertion.
“That sucked,” Austin said, sitting up and rolling his shoulders. “I need to stop slacking.” Tate didn't answer, just stared down at the dingy concrete floor. “Not all of us can be machines like you and Mikhail,” Austin said, his voice cautious. He wasn't blind; he knew Tate was dealing with something. But, being the good friend that he was, he also knew Tate didn't feel like fucking talking about it. Tate appreciated that about Austin—he never pushed too hard. The problem was, Tate did want to talk about it. He wanted to scream, actually. He wanted to scream to the heavens that he loved Shay Spears and he wanted to marry her and all that he wanted in life was to know if she loved him back. He wanted her to want him back. He wanted her to let him make her happy.
He wanted so many goddamn things.
He tightened his hands into fists, aching to hit something again. The tape around his knuckles cracked. His whole body hurt, but he didn't care. He wasn't exhausted yet. He wanted to be so exhausted that when he got home he would drop into bed and fall right into sleep. He didn't want to have to think about sleeping in an empty bed, that was for damn sure. Just as he was getting lost in all the thoughts he was trying to ignore, Austin cleared his throat loudly. Tate glanced up, his concentration broken.
That's when he saw her.
She was standing just inside the doorway, her purse and a big tote bag tucked under her arm. Life seemed to move in slow motion as she turned her head toward him and their eyes locked. She looked tired, he noticed. Slightly worn out. Sad. But her eyes brightened when she saw him and it sparked a fire in his chest. Before he knew it, he was in front of her and she was throwing her arms around him and burrowing her face into his neck. He tightened his arms around her waist and lifted her up off of her feet. He was sweaty, but she didn't seem to care. He held his breath, too cautious to get too excited. But he couldn't help it.
She'd finally come for him.
“I texted and you didn't answer,” she said after what seemed like a long time, her voice muffled.
“My phone's in my locker,” he said, pressing his nose into her hair. She smelled so damn good, like cold winter air and raw vanilla.
“That's what I figured,” she sniffled, her face still buried in his chest. He didn't want to let her go, but he set her lightly back on the floor and she loosened her hold on him, her hands sliding down and resting on his chest. Her cheeks were wet and her eyeliner was smudged and he brought his hands up to her face. He gently wiped her tears away with his thumbs and she closed her eyes and leaned into him. “I'm so tired of crying,” she mumbled, her voice thick as honey.
“If you have to do it, do it,” he said, kissing her temple lightly. “I don't mind.”
“Everyone's probably looking at us,” she sniffled, her eyes still closed. He didn't give a shit who was looking as he cocked his head and kissing her cheek. She moaned lightly and finally opened her eyes. He felt like she was staring right into his fucking soul. He could see the sadness in her gaze, but there was more. He wanted to know everything she was thinking, but he didn't ask. After a second, she swallowed hard and took a deep breath.“They found the guy that... they found the guy. He's in jail,” she said, her voice stronger than before.
“What? How?” he furrowed his brow, shocked out of his silence.
“He caught Sam stealing his car, so he shot him,” she said matter-of-factly. “Then he took off and left my dad there, all alone. He let him bleed out on the street, like it was nothing.”
“Shit,” Tate hissed in disbelief.
“That's all it was,” she said. “A fight over a car. Nothing more, nothing less.” She shrugged lightly, like it wasn't all so painful but he could see the truth in her eyes. “So you don't have to worry about my safety any more.” She stared up
at him, so many unsaid things behind her words. In the past, he wouldn't have understood what she was trying to say, but now he knew. He knew exactly what she wanted from him.
“When I got that call, telling me that Sam Spears had been shot, you know the first thing I thought?” he asked.
“Tate you don't have to—” she began but he didn't let her finish.
“I was worried out of my fucking mind that you'd been shot too, because of his bullshit. I thought that you were laying there next to him in the street, because you were too goddamn loyal to him,” he blurted out. “I hate him for what he did to you. Maybe it's not right to say that, but I don't care. It's true. For years, I felt like complete shit because of what happened to you. I never forgot. It never felt right, ever. And it was all because of him.” She stared up at him and for a second he thought she was going to cry again, but she didn't. She didn't look angry at his words either so he took that as a good sign, as good of one as he could hope for. He just had to get out his feelings about her father and then he would never talk about them again. He just wanted her to know. “He didn't deserve what happened. No one deserves that,” he continued. “And I'm glad they caught the guy who did it. Really fucking glad.” He clicked his tongue as the words continued to bubble up in him. “But I'm not going to stop worrying about you. Not ever. I want you to know that.” He tightened his arms around her, wanting to pull her close. Close as possible. “So now you know,” he said, not knowing what else to say.
“I think that's the most you've ever said to me at one time,” she replied. He ducked his head to hide his smile. He knew what she said was probably true. She twisted her fingers in the hem of his sweaty T-shirt but she didn't smile back. “I want you to come to the funeral,” she murmured. “Say that you'll come with me.”
“Yes,” he said automatically. There was nothing he'd rather do than be by her side. “I'll go with you.”
Spitfire Suckerpunch (House of Pain Book 2) Page 39
