by K. A. Tucker
I slide the stack of papers out and see my dad’s name across the top. A strange feeling sweeps through me. “So you are investigating my dad’s death.” Klein hasn’t actually admitted it yet.
“Yes, ma’am. We’ll be in touch soon,” he drawls in a fake Texas twang. The two FBI agents stroll away, no one around us the wiser.
“Gracie, I—”
“When are you going to stop lying to me, Noah?” My voice cracks on his name, which only makes me more upset with him.
“I didn’t lie! I just . . . Klein blindsided me in Tucson. He played that message and . . . hearing her voice brought me right back to that fucking horrible night.” Noah swallows hard. “And then he basically accused me of killing her.”
Mixed in with my anger is unexpected sympathy. “Is that why you punched him?” It would probably take accusing Noah of murdering his own mother for his temper to erupt like that.
Noah nods. “I wanted to talk to Maxwell and Silas first, and I knew you wouldn’t be willing to wait. I’m sorry.” He settles those earnest eyes on me.
I’m forced to turn away from them before my anger melts. He’s right; I wouldn’t have been. I would have demanded we talk to Klein right away. Because why shouldn’t we? “And let me guess: your uncle told you not to tell the FBI anything?”
He chews his bottom lip, delaying an answer. Giving me the answer I need. “It’s all a moot point, now that you’ve told Klein everything.”
“You’re right, and I’m glad I did, because I have this police report and the FBI on my side, and I’m going to clear my dad’s name. Something you obviously don’t care that much about doing. But it’s all going to come out eventually.” I jump off the ledge and march in the direction of the parking lot, hugging the report to my chest.
Everyone keeps saying that this was an open-and-shut case. But there has to be something in these pages. Something that, if you knew the whole story—or at least what we now know about my dad and Mantis—would let you see it for what it actually is: proof of my father’s innocence.
CHAPTER 38
Noah
“Gracie, I’m so—”
“Don’t.” Her tone is sharp. A warning.
I try another angle. “That report looks long. I’ll help you go through it.”
“So you can figure out how to sabotage the investigation?” she hisses, her eyes glued to the pages within her grip.
“I’m not—”
“Noah! Just . . .” She shakes her head, her rage filling my SUV with palpable tension. “Just don’t.”
I press my lips firmly together. Boy, does she have a temper to rival anyone’s, and she is fucking pissed with me. I can’t blame her. There’s no point saying another word, not until she calms down.
If she ever calms down.
We’re silent as we drive along a side street, minutes away from my house, my mind caught in inappropriate ways to beg for her forgiveness—so not the right time to be thinking about that—when the wail of a police siren sounds behind us.
“Are you speeding?” Gracie frowns at my odometer, forgetting her anger for the moment.
I check my dash. “No.” That’s usually what I get pulled over for, and I’ve been pulled over a few times over the years. They caught me on a rolling stop in a school zone once, too. Royally chewed me out for that. Since then, I wait an extra two beats at stop signs, so that’s not the reason either.
“Will they let you off? You know, because of your mom?”
“I guess we’ll see.” I’ve never name-dropped; I’ve never needed to. The APD somehow always put two and two together and let me off with a warning. Except for that one guy, who either didn’t clue in or didn’t care and wrote me a ticket. Mom made that one go away, though she did it with a heavy warning that it would be the first and last time she stepped in.
Every single time I’ve seen those bright blue lights flashing in my rearview mirror, I’ve known exactly why.
This time around, though, I don’t have a clue what I’ve done. All I do know is that no one’s going to fix any tickets for me.
With a sigh, I pull over. “Maybe my taillight is busted.” Plausible, and yet I can’t help the unease that’s sliding down my spine.
I feel Gracie’s worried eyes burning a hole into the side of my face as I quietly watch the unmarked cruiser coast up behind me, the blare of the lights bright even in the midday sun.
“Don’t say anything . . . about anything. Please.”
“Don’t worry about that,” she mutters. I get the impression Gracie generally doesn’t like dealing with the police.
Opening my window, I rest my hands visibly on the top of my steering wheel and watch the side-view mirror as the officer climbs out of the driver’s seat.
“Holy shit.”
“What is it?” Gracie glances over her shoulder to spy through the rear window. Her eyes widen. “Is that—”
“Yeah.” We didn’t have to track down Mantis, after all.
He found us.
“This can’t be a coincidence.” What the hell is the head of Internal Affairs doing, pulling us over?
“Coincidence or not, I finally get to meet this piece of shit in person.” I hear the challenge in her voice.
“Gracie . . .”
“He killed my father!” she hisses.
“Which would make him capable of murder. Besides, we don’t have proof. You need to play it cool. Don’t let on about what we know. And don’t aggravate him,” I add in a low whisper, as Mantis slows and stoops on approach, trying to see inside. My windows are tinted, though.
“Hello, sir.” I force a smile when he stops a foot away from my door.
“Please remove your sunglasses.” The deep, grating voice I remember from the night my mother died sounds wooden now.
“Yes, sir.” I slide them to my head and squint against the bright sun as I peer up at his hard face. Growing up around cops and having a high-ranking one for a mother, I have a healthy respect for police, but I’m also comfortable around them.
Mantis, though, made me uneasy even when I didn’t know anything about him. Now . . . every muscle in my body feels tense.
He stoops to settle a shrewd gaze on Gracie and I catch a whiff of cheap cologne.
“What have I been pulled over for, Officer?”
“Is this your vehicle?”
“Yes, sir. Do you want to see the paperwork?”
“Just your license for now.”
I fish my license out of my wallet and hand it to him.
“What are you up to today, Noah Marshall?” Is he playing dumb too? There’s no way he hasn’t made the connection between my name and the late chief. He saw me on the front porch less than two weeks ago, my hands covered in blood, for fuck’s sake.
“Errands.”
A ghost of a smirk touches his thin lips. “This your friend?” He nods toward Gracie.
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your name, miss?”
“Grace.”
“How old are you?”
A frown flickers over her brow. “Twenty. Why?”
“Let me see some ID.”
After a glance my way, she reaches into her purse.
“Slowly!” he barks.
At first she freezes altogether, and then she moves cautiously, sliding her license out of her wallet and handing it to me, to pass along. I hear her teeth crack against each other, and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s pissed or scared. Maybe both.
His beady eyes drift over the console to the envelope, holding the SIU report that sits on her lap, to the backseat. “You don’t mind if I have a look in your car, do you?”
He asks it so smoothly. It’s the oldest trick in the book, according to my mom—getting permission to search a car when you don’t have cause. What is he up to?
His brows lift, waiting for my answer.
“I do mind. I’m not consenting to that.”
“Do you have something to hide?”
“No, sir. I’m just not consenting to you searching my car.”
By the stare he’s leveling me with, I won’t be winning any prizes from him today. “Do you have weapons?”
“I have a handgun locked in a safety box under the seat. I have a permit for it.” Is the switchblade in Gracie’s purse five or six inches? Because six is illegal in Texas. Shit.
He glances around himself, and then backs away. “Step out of the vehicle. Both of you.”
Fuck. “What is this about?”
“Now!”
“Do what he says; don’t give him cause,” I softly warn Gracie, before easing myself out. That may be what he’s looking for. Though, if what we suspect of him is true, he’s perfectly capable of making up shit to haul us in.
“Stand over there.” He points to the curb and I promptly listen, finding my place next to Gracie, my fingertips trailing lightly against her thigh. A reminder that I’m here, and I won’t let anything happen to her.
Mantis eyes Gracie before shifting his attention back to me, studying our licenses for several long moments, allowing me to study him, in his dress pants and a button-down shirt. His gun is strapped to his body by a holster.
“Miss Richards, what are you doing in Texas?”
“Visiting my friend.”
“He’s your friend?”
“Yes.”
His gaze slides down Gracie’s body in a way that makes my fists clench. “How long will you be in Texas?”
“Depends.” Her jaw tenses.
“On?” He watches her intently and I see it as a dare.
Please don’t do it, Gracie.
Another beat passes and then she plasters on the widest—fakest—smile I’ve ever seen touch her face. “On how long it takes for Noah to admit he has feelings for me. I mean, I keep dropping these major hints, but he hasn’t picked up on them yet. Are guys normally this thick-skulled or did I just pick an especially dumb one to chase after?”
I don’t know whether to laugh or groan.
Mantis turns his attention back to my ID in his hand, not answering her question, and, by the way his square jaw tenses, not happy that she’s toying with him. “Any relation to Chief Marshall?”
Will hearing that name—that title—ever not feel like a sucker punch to my gut again? “She was my mother.” And you damn well know that, you son of a bitch.
“Sorry to hear what happened.”
“Thanks.” This is the point where an APD officer would hand me back my ID and tell me I’m free to go.
“Such a shame she couldn’t hack it.”
I grit my teeth against the urge to defend her. He’s trying to provoke me.
“Women aren’t meant to take on big roles. They don’t have what it takes.”
Gracie’s nostrils flare in that way they do when she’s about to lose her temper and spout off all kinds of things that will get us into trouble—I’ve experienced it enough to see it coming.
“Are we free to go?” I ask, before she has a chance.
“You’re free to go when I tell you you’re free to go.” His gaze shifts to Gracie. “You know, you look an awful lot like an old friend of mine. Abe Wilkes. Ever heard of him?”
She doesn’t look anything like Abe.
Gracie lifts her chin in defiance. “He was my father.”
“Really . . .” His brow pops a beat too late to make the surprise believable. “Small world.”
“So . . . you were friends?” She spits that word out like it tastes bad.
“We went way back. He was a decent guy. Good ballplayer.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Someone murdered him and set him up before I got to know him.”
“Jesus Christ,” slips out under my breath, but neither of them is paying attention to me.
Mantis stares her down. “That’s not how I remember the story playing out.”
“And were you there?” Gracie’s returning gaze is just as scrutinizing.
“I wasn’t.”
She mock frowns. “Are you sure?”
“Gracie . . .” I mutter, but it’s too late.
“Are you accusing me of something?”
“Should I be?”
I reach for her hand, gripping it tightly.
“You’re definitely Abe Wilkes’s girl. Ballsy, just like he was.” He sucks on his bottom lip for a moment. “We received a tip that a vehicle matching your description may be transporting illegal substances. Please step aside while I search it.”
“That’s bullshit. You’re not even in uniform!” Gracie snarls.
“Turn around. Now!” he barks, making for his holster.
I instinctively step forward, pushing Gracie behind me with my arm. This has gone on long enough. “You’re the head of Internal Affairs, Mantis. You didn’t get any tip and I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but you won’t get away with it.”
“You wouldn’t believe what I can get away with.” He grins viciously. “Are you saying that you’re resisting?”
A cruiser slows to a stop on the street beside us then, and the window slides down.
“Everything good here?” Boyd calls out. The sound of his familiar voice is both a relief and a stinging reminder. I haven’t seen him since my mom’s funeral.
Mantis’s hand shifts away from his gun. His gaze hasn’t left Gracie, but his expression has turned sour. “Just letting them off with a warning,” he hollers, thrusting our licenses back into our hands. “Enjoy your visit to Texas, Gracie May.” He marches back to his car, a waft of that off-putting cologne trailing behind him.
I release a lung’s worth of air.
“How’re you doing, Noah?” Boyd says, genuine sympathy clouding his face. His partner sits quietly beside him.
“I’ve been better.”
“Sorry I haven’t called. I keep meaning to, but the kids, you know . . .”
“Yeah, of course.” It’s weird to think that Boyd is only one year older than me and he’s already married with two kids, and another one on the way.
Boyd watches as the unmarked cruiser pulls a quick U-turn and speeds off in the opposite direction. “What was that about?”
“Nothing you want to get involved in,” I mutter, glancing over to Gracie, whose face has taken on a pallid color. “Are you okay?”
“No one but my dad called me Gracie May. My middle name isn’t even on this.” She holds up her driver’s license in her shaky hands.
“He was trying to rattle you.”
“Too bad for him it didn’t work.” She lets out a derisive snort and nods toward Boyd. “Maybe you should tell him. He is a witness to Mantis’s bullshit.”
“And what happened the last time a cop witnessed Mantis’s bullshit?” I remind her with a knowing look.
“Hey!” Boyd frowns. “Seriously. What the hell is going on?”
I sigh. “How well do you know Dwayne Mantis?”
“Just from playing ball. He’s a tough son of a bitch.” His eyes narrow. “Why are you asking?” Silas wasn’t wrong when he mocked the blue wall of silence, that night with Canning.
Maybe I should be wary of Boyd, too, given that he was standing on my porch with Mantis.
But I also know that Boyd’s exactly the kind of person you want behind a gun and a badge. He’s what my mother would call a Steady Eddie. He’s not chasing after stars and high-profile promotions. He’s not a commando, itching to kick in doors and bust heads. He’s just a reliable beat cop who likes to keep the peace, who’s always going to be a reliable beat cop who likes to keep the peace.
Which is why I don’t want to get him involved in this, because that was definitely a warning from Mantis.
A warning that he knows why Gracie’s here, and he doesn’t like it.
Boyd’s radio begins chirping a series of codes. He pauses to listen. “We’ve gotta get to this. I’ll catch up with you later.” He throws on his lights and siren and they speed away.
“So much for our witness.” Gracie’s
voice has a wobble to it.
“He’ll loop back later.”
“Sure he will.” She doesn’t believe that for a second. “How did Mantis find out why I’m here, anyway?”
“How should I know?”
“Only one person knows, besides the feds.”
Yeah. My uncle. “What are you getting at?”
She shakes her head. “Stop being naïve.” She climbs back into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind her.
* * *
I’m panting by the time I reach my quiet cul-de-sac. This is fucking pathetic. Take a couple weeks off of running and I’m ready to collapse after a mile. The only thing that kept me going was the vision of Gracie at the finish line.
Well, more accurately, barricaded with Cyclops in her bedroom, ignoring me, absorbed by the police report that Klein gave her.
Klein’s her hero.
Me? I’m the asshole who didn’t tell her about him in the first place. She hasn’t said two words to me since we got home, and I deserve it. Still, I’d take the screaming and knife-wielding over the silent treatment.
I’d sure as hell take it over this heavy feeling that I’ve screwed up with Gracie one too many times.
She hasn’t come right out and said it—because she isn’t talking to me—but it’s obvious she thinks Silas is in cahoots with Mantis. Maybe she should start by blaming the FBI. I mean, it’s just as ridiculous an idea as pointing the finger at my uncle.
My feet feel like lead blocks as I climb the front steps of my porch and step into the house.
A thump comes from above me.
“Gracie?” I call out.
Another thump sounds, followed by a slam.
“Gracie!”
No response.
I didn’t set the alarm when I left.
Icy dread begins coursing through my veins as I take the stairs up, two at a time.
Gracie’s not in her room.
I find her in my mother’s office, furiously scribbling on a blank sheet of computer paper. “How is there not one single working pen in this entire place!” She whips a dud toward the trash can, missing it completely. It joins the array already scattered over the carpeted floor.
