by Carina Adams
I hope the packages I’ve sent have brought you some comfort. This one is very special, and I know you’ll love it as much as I did.
This nightmare will be over soon. Only a few more weeks, and we can be together. Then we’ll celebrate your release —go anywhere you want.
I’ll never let anyone take you away from me again.
I love you.
D
I almost tore it to shreds. Instead, as tears burned my eyes, I tucked the picture and letter into the front of the children’s book and stacked the other things he’d sent on top of them. I didn’t know what to do or who to tell.
He wanted to torture me. To scare me, maybe. Definitely to hurt me. That’s why he’d included the picture.
I curled up on my bed, knowing I couldn’t keep the past at bay forever. I’d given Matt the letters, and for all I knew, he’d already read them. It was all going to come out eventually.
I’d never forget, even if I wanted to. I’d lived with Dale for a long time, and for a good chunk of that time, I’d been his personal plaything. Being locked away had allowed me to be able to avoid the truth, and the knowledge that he had been released, for a little while.
I’d thought I’d been safe—jail was the one place in the world Dale couldn’t get to me. I’d been wrong. If he could reach me there, there wasn’t a place I could go where he wouldn’t find me, nowhere he wouldn’t follow me.
For months now, a small part of me had wondered if I’d been overreacting. It’d been years since he’d written one of his letters. I’d hoped he’d forgotten me and changed his mind. Now I knew. He’d made his point, loud and clear. I didn’t have a choice.
My old therapist had a theory. She claimed that victims of childhood sexual abuse grew up to do one of three things: they get caught in a cycle where they allow people to mistreat them because they believed it’s all they deserved; they closed themselves off and never let anyone in because they were too ashamed to be loved; or they healed by helping others. She’d been extremely worried I’d fall into the first category.
Maybe I would have. If Hannah hadn’t been born, if I hadn’t gone to the hospital that day with my mom, my path might have been completely different. If I couldn’t find a way to break free from Dale, that might be what my future entailed.
Right now, though, I was not that woman.
Instead, I was the one who’d happily walked into a police station, smiled at the man behind the counter, and confessed to a crime I hadn’t committed. I hadn’t been afraid for me but worried about what the investigators had on Rob. I knew that I had a better chance of beating the charges than he ever did.
I was a good student, had solid character references, and was a productive member of society. Anything bad I’d done was sealed away in a juvie record. Yet, I could also explain it away by playing the victim—something I wasn’t too proud to do, if it meant Rob walked away.
One day, whether I was convicted or not, I hoped people would understand why I’d done it. I couldn’t remain on the sidelines anymore. I couldn’t not do something to save someone I loved and then live with the regret.
Rob had been beaten down his entire life. Every time he’d gotten a little snippet of happiness, it had been snatched away. He was the kindest person I knew, the one who always did the right thing, and I wanted him to find peace.
Robert Doyle drove me absolutely bat-shit crazy. He was so frustrating at times that I wanted to slap him. Yet, under it all, he was the boy who’d taught me to laugh again. The man who kissed me like I was the only person he’d ever wanted. And the friend who would do anything for the people he loved.
I hadn’t been able to save Hannah. She’d been my entire world and I’d lost her anyway. That was just one reason I would do everything in my power to save her dad. Both from outside threats and from himself.
I loved him. The thirteen-year-old girl who everyone avoided had fallen for the boy who didn’t care about her past. The seventeen-year-old had loved him again when she’d held his daughter and read the beautiful words he’d written to his little girl. I loved him now because of who he had become.
I hoped that he wouldn’t hate me once this was all over and everything was in the open. That was one pain I wasn’t sure I could survive. I sat up and glanced at the stack of books. There was no way I could ignore it anymore. The truth was coming.
Sighing, I pushed the pain and anger away once more. I needed to focus on one thing at a time, and right then, the trial was more important. I’d deal with Dale later.
It was the same lie I’d been telling myself for years. This time, I meant it. If I got out, I’d face my demons. And hope the people I loved were there to pick me up after my fall.
31
Rocker
“We have three fucking days to figure this shit out,” I told the group of Bastards gathered around my table. “Three.”
We didn’t have a clubhouse yet, but the studio did the job for now. I’d worry about the rest of that shit once Cris was home safe and sound. For now, finding a way to beat the system and get her out from under her murder charge was my only priority.
“What do we know?” Tank asked staring around the table.
“Nothin’ new.” Wiz pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can’t find a fuckin’ thing on any of the detectives. Not a single fuckin’ cop in that district is hidin’ anythin’. No connection to the Renegades, no payoffs from the Knights. When the captain said he was cleanin’ it up a few years ago, he followed through. They’re squeaky fuckin’ clean, guy.”
“That’s not true,” Jeremy argued as he came through the door late, a thick folder in his arms. “Detective Evans knew Hansen.”
“What?”
I narrowed my eyes, recalling Evans. He’d been the nice guy in the good cop/bad cop scenario. Nothing about him struck me as the kind of guy who’d be friends with the scum of the earth cocksucker that Hansen had been.
“He beat the piss out of him last Christmas.” Jerm tossed an internal report in front of me. “Then he called the Department of Children and Families ‘cause he claimed Hansen had a little boy with him. A little boy, who in Evans’ words, was skinny as a rail and dirty. After that, he investigated the fucker for months. Some of Hansen’s neighbors said Evans harassed the fuck outta Hansen. And Evans wrote a letter to DCF asking them to do a formal investigation on the child when he couldn’t figure out who the boy was.”
“That doesn’t help us,” Mutt muttered. “He’s not dirty.”
“He’s not. But it does help,” I told them all.
It helped a fuck-ton. I needed to get the report and the letter to McCue to see if he could use them. Even if he couldn’t, Evans was biased. He might be a weak link.
“Is that how they found the body so fuckin’ quick?” Matty wondered out loud.
“They had an anonymous tip.” Jeremy lifted another piece of paper and read, “At 9:48 p.m. on May 11, an unidentified female called 911 to report sounds of a violent domestic dispute at Hansen’s address. She didn’t know the apartment number but said it was above her. Then, at 10:22, another unidentified female dialed 911 again, this time to report gunfire at the same address. She stated that she saw a man she recognized as Robert Doyle run into the street.” He looked at me. “She named you and gave the color, make, and model of the vehicle you fled in.”
“Are you fuckin’ shittin’ me?” Tank yelled.
“9:48?” Preach pointed at me. “Think about that timeline.”
I had. It didn’t add up. We’d been long gone by then, already at Tiny’s. Cris was at the hospital with Owen.
“There’s more,” Jeremy admitted as I started to stand. “That new evidence they found?” He tossed a thick stack of papers onto the table. “Complete bullshit. Another anonymous tip. A woman told 911 she’d seen you toss the gun that you’d used to murder Hansen.” He stabbed it with his fingertip. “They pulled it outta a dumpster around the corner from our place. The DA had such a fuckin’ hard-on, thinkin�
�� they’d caught you, that they dropped the bomb on your attorney before they’d run ballistics. It wasn’t a match.”
The new evidence hadn’t even been real. My case probably would’ve been dismissed. Cris had turned herself in for no fucking reason.
“I don’t get it, man. Was this caller trying to help? Point the finger at you then give them the wrong gun? What’s the angle if they knew it wasn’t the right one?”
“Of course it wasn’t.” I shook my head. “Cris had my gun.”
“Nobody knew that, though,” Matty argued. “Think I woulda let my baby sister keep that thing hangin’ around? Fuck, no.” He shook his head. “She was told to hand that fuckin’ thing off.”
“She did, brother. I was standing right there when she gave it to Candy,” Wiz assured my friends.
“What kind of gun did they find?” I demanded, my mind whirling.
“A Glock. Nine mil.” Jeremy rubbed his chin. “Yeah. Some coincidental shit, ain’t it?”
“The murder hadn’t even made the papers. Details of the investigation were being kept under lock and key at the station,” Preach spoke. “What kind of dumb luck made the motherfucker plant the same fuckin’ gun?”
“It’s not dumb luck. We have a fuckin’ rat,” Tank sneered as he looked around the table. “Which of you fuckers did it? Confess now, and it’ll be over real quick. Lie to me, and I’m gonna drag it out real slow.”
Every single face filled with fury at the accusation. None of them had betrayed me. None of them would ever betray me.
“My fuckin’ father,” Tank answered his own question after a minute. “I didn’t believe that bullshit he spewed about second chances and askin’ for forgiveness. Fuck that.” He pushed out of his chair. “Fuck him and his money. I’m taking that fuckin’ prick down.”
Tiny blocked his way. “Sit down.”
“Of course.” Tank shoved the big man’s shoulders. “Loyal to the end, ain’t ya?”
“Sit. Down,” Tiny spoke again, his voice full of menace.
Tension filled the room; the brothers sent worried glances my way, waiting for my orders. I shook my head. We were staying out of it unless we needed to intervene. This was between the two of them and had been a long time coming.
Tank shoved him again. “You have no say here, Bean Nighe.” He spit the word like it was offensive, as if he himself hadn’t been wearing the Bean Nighe cut just months ago. “You’re in Bastards territory. I don’t follow your orders.”
“Do I look like a fuckin’ Bean Nighe to you?” Tiny opened his arms wide. “That’s a Bastards patch on my back, same as yours.”
“You’re a fuckin’ spy,” Tank barked. “What, you think you take down Rocker, you’d take us down from the inside? Was that dear old Daddio’s plan? Send you here so you can do his dirty work? Makes sense—you been doin’ it for twenty fuckin’ years.” He shook his head. “Newsflash, fucker, here, loyalty is real. You’re gonna have ta try a fuck of a lot harder than that to destroy us.”
Tiny fisted the front of Tank’s shirt and lifted him up onto his toes. “You think that’s why I’m here, you disrespectful little shit? I started that club with your dad. You think I’d throw it all away, leave my family, to be a spy in yours?” His lips curled in disgust. “You wanna talk to me about loyalty? I held you when you weren’t even ten minutes old and promised that I’d have your back until the day I died. You’re my goddamn son, whether we share blood or not. So, get your head out of your fuckin’ ass, pup.” He let him go, shoving him backward. “You father didn’t do this.”
“Yeah? Then who the fuck did?”
“Candy.”
Silence settled over the room, everybody tense.
“Sit down.” My voice broke the quiet. Jeremy was the only one who dropped into a seat. “Take a fucking seat,” I demanded.
After one more showdown, the two of them grudgingly came back to the table.
I waited, staring at each of them. “Look around,” I told them. “The men at this table are your brothers. Family. You want to be pissed at each other, do it next week. Right now, we have three fucking days to figure out a way around the murder charge.”
Tiny looked at me, sincerity clear. “Slasher didn’t do this shit.”
“But you think Candy did?” Matty asked from my left.
“She had the gun. She knew we were at the apartment.”
“What would she gain? What’s in it for her?” Jeremy asked, shaking his head. “Why set Rocker up?”
“You mean other than being a nasty-ass cunt?” Tank spit.
Tiny shrugged. “I don’t know. To punish me for startin’ over. For leaving the Bean Nighe.”
“For protecting me against Shooter,” Tank supplied. “And getting him killed.”
For loving Tank more than he’d ever loved her.
Tiny shook his head. “It’s been a long time comin’. Let me take care of it.”
I stared at him. I couldn’t imagine being in his spot. Even if I thought Cris had betrayed me or turned on my brothers, I’d still defend her to the death. I’d put her on a plane and get her the fuck out before I’d put her to ground.
“No.” It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him to do it. It was that I didn’t want him to have to do it alone. “Tank and Preach, you go with him. Find out the truth.” The three of them stood up. “If Tiny’s right, if Candy did this, make sure she leaves the state and never comes back.”
Tank snapped his head toward me. “Say that again?”
I stood. “We’re not the Bean Nighe. We’re starting something new, yeah? Something good?” I lifted my chin toward the piece Tiny had strapped to him. “Those bullets are for the ones who hurt the innocents.”
They nodded and left.
I looked over the other five Bastards as I sat. “Now, tell me what else we’ve got.”
Three hours later, I tracked McCue and his paralegal down at a little Italian restaurant in the North End. Both men looked at me wide-eyed as I stole a chair from the table next to them and sat, uninvited.
“Mr. Doyle.” McCue wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin, his disgust clear and voice curt. “What can I do for you?”
I almost laughed. Rich people were so easy to offend. “You haven’t been returning my calls.”
“I’m sorry.” He frowned apologetically. “Next time, I’ll pick up the phone and tell you that I have nothing to say to you.”
Fucker was funny. While the other restaurant patrons were giving me the side-eye and a wide berth, McCue wasn’t the least bit intimidated by me.
“The amount I pay you per hour means that when I call, you answer.”
He scoffed. “You hired me to defend Ms. Murphy. I work for her. Not you.”
“Consider this visit necessary to do just that.” I leaned closer to him. “I want to know your defense strategy.”
He narrowed his eyes and tossed his napkin onto the table. “She had the murder weapon. She confessed, even though the confession itself is inadmissible. Instead of trying to convince the jury of her innocence, we’re going to focus on the crime itself.”
“You’re telling the jury she’s guilty.”
He picked up his wine glass. “She is.”
“She isn’t,” I seethed.
“The evidence says otherwise.”
“Your evidence is wrong.” I tossed the file onto the table so hard it made the silverware rattle and water spill over the edges of their glasses. I tapped on the folder. “There is enough in here for a non-guilty verdict. Or a mistrial.”
He chuckled cruelly. “I’ve only got a law degree, ten years of experience as a defense attorney, and hundreds of hours of research logged into this case. What do I know?”
“Not as much as I do. Guarantee it. Look through the file, create a new fucking defense, and call me.” I looked over at the paralegal who was so petrified, he was ready to shit his pants. I smiled. Then moved my attention back to McCue. “If she’s found guilty, I’m coming for you.”
It was a gorgeous summer night and I wanted nothing more than to throw my leg over a bike, have my ol’ lady pressed tight behind me, and lose myself in a ride. It would all come in time. As long as everything went as planned, we’d have the rest of our lives to eat as many miles as possible.
32
Cris
Up until the moment the guard escorted me into the courtroom, none of it felt real. Maybe I’d been in denial. Maybe I’d just been a naïve child. Either way, as we walked slowly to the table where McCue waited for me, reality doused me like a bucket of cold water.
Seeing the amount of people sitting in the galley, not just familiar faces but also the reporters, made my stomach queasy. I searched the sea of people, but I didn’t find Rob before the guard and I reached my seat. I wanted to turn around, to look for Robby, to hug Matty and Liam, but McCue had been very clear. I was to sit quietly and face forward.
I rose when I was supposed to, acknowledged my charges, and attempted to follow along as the defense and prosecution made motions I didn’t understand and argued about whether or not the judge should allow them. Then the judge welcomed in the jury, explaining what was expected of them, clarifying the charges I faced, and reminded them they could not discuss the case with anyone—even amongst themselves. Then we recessed for the night.
It was not like the trials on television shows or movies. Our court room was small, the discussions bordered on boring, and everything was repetitive. I was happy when I got to go back to the jail.
When the guard escorted me to the table the next morning, I scanned the crowd again, hoping for a peek of Robby. Nothing.
The second day was just as tedious as the first. I forced myself to listen as opening statements were given, and tried to pay attention to the testimony as the prosecution called a detective. Instead, I strained my ears to see if I could hear any pieces of conversations from behind me, desperate for any clue that Rob was there.
