by K. A. Tucker
He struggles to maintain a neutral expression. With the faintest sigh, and then a lightning-quick glance around him, Dunn settles into the spare seat beside her. “You’re Gracie?”
It’s her turn to look surprised. “You remember my name?”
Dunn chuckles softly. “You don’t spend day in and day out in a car with a man who won’t stop talking about his daughter and not remember her name.” He pauses and glances over at me. “You, too. He went on about the both of you.”
“How long were you partners for?” Gracie asks.
“Three years.” He frowns. “How’d y’all find me, anyway?”
“Dunn’s BBQ? Voted best barbecue in Austin last year?” I smile. “You’re not exactly hard to track down.”
He grins. “I guess not.”
“Gracie’s barely taken a breath, she’s so busy gobbling up your food.” I ignore her eye roll.
“Listen . . .” He heaves a sigh. “I’m sorry that I ever gave my statement. I can’t help but feel it helped with making Abraham look guilty. I still don’t know what all those phone calls were that he kept getting, but I should have known it wasn’t anything wrong. It was Abe, after all.”
“We think the phone calls had to do with this girl.” I pull out my phone. “Do you by chance remember seeing her?” I show him the shot I took of Betsy’s picture.
His murky gray eyes sit on Betsy’s face for far too long to be mistaken for simple consideration. He’s carefully weighing what to say. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Betsy. She’s my mother’s little sister,” Gracie says, watching him closely. She’s picked up on his hesitation too. “She was a runaway, and we think she got pulled into prostitution by a trafficking ring. My father must have seen her in Austin, because he was looking for her in the weeks before he died. We think that’s why he went to the Lucky Nine motel the night he was killed.”
“Jesus Christ . . .” Dunn’s gaze drifts past me, out the window, his jaw tightening.
“You remember her, don’t you? You saw her? When? What happened?”
“Gracie.” I give her a warning look. She’s going on the offensive, and with that posture, getting people to talk—especially cops—might not get us far.
“Maybe it’s best we leave this alone.”
She looks at him in disbelief. And then she erupts. “Fine!” Gracie pushes her tray forward, as if done with her meal. “We’ll tell the FBI to come and talk to you. Maybe here, in front of all your customers. Maybe I’ll call the newspapers, too,” she throws in almost as an afterthought. “Let’s help you get the kind of PR your ‘Best Barbecue in Austin’ restaurant deserves.”
“You don’t wanna be doin’ that,” Dunn warns, his jaw clenched.
“Then you’d better start talking.”
He glances around us—again. His face is a grim mask as he gestures for Gracie to sit back down. “Dispatch sent us out to a hotel one night; I can’t remember the name of it. Decent enough place. They’d gotten an anonymous call about prostitution, possibly with a minor. So we went.” He hesitates. “The man at the door said he was on a date and brought out the girl’s ID. Your father insisted that the girl come to the door to make sure the ID matched. When she finally did, Abe lost it. He was ready to arrest the guy and haul her out of there.”
I exchange a surprised glance with Gracie. “So Abe definitely recognized her?”
“He seemed to.”
“And it was this girl?”
“I believe it was.”
“And then what?” Gracie pushes.
Dunn takes a deep breath, his eyes flickering to me. “And then Jackie Marshall showed up and dismissed us. Said she’d handle it from there. My guess is the man called her as soon as we knocked on the door. It took him a good while to come to the door in the first place, using the shower as an excuse to stall having to answer. And then he kept checkin’ the hall, as if waitin’ for someone. Anyway, Wilkes wasn’t happy. But your mom, she tore my notes right out of my book and sent me to the car. Wilkes came out five minutes later, hoppin’ mad. He radioed in that all was clear, and then we left for a robbery call.”
My stomach drops in that way it does when you realize you’ve gotten caught for screwing up. Only I didn’t screw up. But it sounds like my mom did. “You guys left a fifteen-year-old human trafficking victim there?”
“No. We followed a superior officer’s orders. If that girl got left there, it’s on Jackie Marshall,” he says carefully, but I see the guilt in his eyes.
Gracie’s brow furrows. I’m sure she’s filling in the blanks with what we learned from Dina already, and Dunn’s account of that night fits well with everything, except the one thing we both know of Abe—that he wouldn’t leave Betsy in a hotel room, not even because of an order from a superior officer.
My mother must have found some way to compel Abe to leave.
But the bigger question is, why the hell would my mother interfere like that in the first place?
Holy shit. “She was protecting the guy in the room.”
“That would be my guess. But you’d have to ask her.” His words dig exactly where he means them to—deep into my chest.
“Who was he?” Gracie pushes.
Dunn wipes away at some salt on the table with his hand, his eyes downcast. “He never produced his identification. He made up some lousy story about it being lost.”
Gracie’s jaw tightens with frustration. “What did he look like?”
“White guy. That’s all I remember.” He pauses for a moment. “Red hair, I think. Sorry, that’s all I know.” Dunn eases out of the chair. “Y’all enjoy your meal.”
Gracie’s eyes narrow. “Was he a cop?”
Dunn’s shoulders tense. Whatever cooperation he was showing us has gone out the window. “You listen here, miss . . .” He leans in, his hand gripping the back of Gracie’s wooden chair, his anger poorly veiled, though he manages to keep his voice low. “I’m tired of hearin’ the kinds of accusations thrown around about the APD. I hear ’em all day long. Lazy cop this, dirty cop that. There are a lot of mighty fine police officers in this city who risk their lives day in, day out so y’all can stroll down the streets in peace. Just because Dwayne Mantis was a rotten apple in the bushel basket doesn’t give people the right to turn our integrity into the punch line of a joke.”
Our server shows up then, oblivious to the choking tension around us. “Can I get y’all a refill on your sweet teas?”
Dunn stands abruptly and, with a deep inhale, manages to slough his anger away. “Jillian, you make sure these two get whatever they want on the house. Their parents were both fine officers.” With that, Dunn marches for his office.
“What the hell, Noah!” Gracie hisses the second our server is gone.
I pick at a piece of sausage, a lump swelling in my throat. I have no answer for her.
How could my mother do that to Abe? To Dina? To Gracie? To fifteen-year-old Betsy? They were family and she chose a friend—some ‘white guy, red hair’ friend—over them.
All I can do is shake my head as I pick through my memories, trying to place this person. The only white guy with red hair I know is Jenson, and he was eleven at the time. “I guess now we know what our parents were fighting over,” I mutter.
“You realize what this means, don’t you?” Gracie’s words escape her slowly, her mind still trying to make sense of this. “My dad was out searching for Betsy when he witnessed that bust at The Lucky Nine, and because he witnessed that bust, he got himself into that mess with Mantis. And because of that, he died.”
And the reason he was out looking for Betsy in the first place is because my mother made him leave her in that hotel room.
“What I let happen . . . I may as well have pulled the trigger.”
Now I know what she meant.
Basically, Abe died because of what my mother did that night.
And the only way she could see to “do right” by it all was to put a gun to her temple.
“What do you say we order in pizza?” I holler, knowing my voice will carry through the open window to the backyard.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“I’m not, actually . . .” I mutter, standing in front of the open fridge, patting my grumbling stomach while I eye the still-full shelves. Nothing looks appetizing.
With a sigh, I find an apple, along with a strip of beef jerky, and I wander through the French doors. Gracie propels herself through the water with ease, her normally wild hair soaked and stretching halfway down her back.
Cyclops comes trotting up to me, eyeing the beef. “Go find a squirrel or something.” I take a bite off the end, ignoring him and watching Gracie swim to the edge of the pool, to rest lean arms on the side.
“You know that’s his, right?”
“I wouldn’t necessarily call it ‘his.’ ”
A whimper sounds and I look down to see him licking his lips. “Begging doesn’t suit you.” It actually does, with that one eye. He looks downright pathetic.
“I bring those home from work for him once a week. He loves them.”
“Well, I love them, too—ow!” I yelp, as Cyclops snatches the strip right out from my lowered hand. He scampers away with it between his jaws. “You little . . .”
Gracie’s deep bellow of laughter carries through the warm spring air, erasing my annoyance instantly. How long has it been since anyone’s laughed like that back here? At least fourteen years.
The beautiful sound dies slowly on her lips. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you laugh just like your dad did.”
Her jaw hardens slightly. “Sometimes it makes me angry, that you remember so much about him and I can’t even picture his face.”
I make my way toward the edge of the pool. “I’ll tell you everything I remember.”
After a moment, she nods. Her gaze drifts over my T-shirt and shorts. “Not swimming?”
“Nah, don’t feel like it.”
“The water’s warm,” she taunts.
“Liar. Your lips are blue.” We’ve been in a cold spell these past few days. I turned the pool heater up, but it’ll take hours to get to a comfortable temperature.
“Huh.”
Here we go. “ ‘Huh’ . . . what?”
She shrugs. “Nothing. Just didn’t take you for a giant baby.” She casts off from the side using her legs. “I think I saw a blanket in the living room. You should go and swaddle yourself before—” She squeals as I charge toward her, diving into the cool water fully dressed, the shock of the temperature oddly refreshing on my muscles.
A curse slides from my lips as I surface, gooseflesh instantly covering my arms.
“Give it a minute,” she warns, adding on a quiet, “wuss.”
Coasting over to the shallow end, I quickly peel off my T-shirt and toss it off to the side before diving back under.
Gracie stretches out and floats on her back along the surface of the water, her gaze drifting somewhere unseen above us, into the sky.
It gives me ample opportunity to admire her flat stomach and the swell of her breasts and her hips while I quietly tread water, trying to warm up. The girl has curves like I’ve never seen, so full and solid, they’re almost cartoonish.
She clears her throat and I realize she’s caught me checking her out.
“Do you think if my dad hadn’t died and your mom hadn’t . . . you know . . . we would’ve been friends?”
“As opposed to what we are now?”
She sighs with exasperation. “You know what I mean.”
Do I? Exactly what are we now? “I’d probably be like an older brother to you,” I finally say.
Horror flashes across Gracie’s face and it makes me laugh. But it also makes my heart race.
I dive in to glide beneath her, my back pushing against hers, making her lose her balance and fold into the water.
When she surfaces, she’s sputtering water. “You’re definitely . . . annoying enough . . . to be my brother!” She splashes me in the face.
I slide my hand around her waist and guide her to the edge of the pool. “Sorry, I didn’t think you’d go right under.” I wait, studying her intoxicating face until she quiets down, reveling in the feel of her silky skin beneath my fingers. It sends my adrenaline pumping through my veins.
She turns her green gaze onto me, and I brace myself for a tongue-lashing. I’m caught off guard when she leans in and presses her lips against mine in a quick, firm kiss. “You know that I don’t blame you for any of this, right?”
Her words bring my mind swerving back to the thoughts I’m desperately trying to avoid.
What happened that night, with Abe and my mother squaring off in front of a hotel room that held Betsy and some white guy with red hair?
Tension courses through my body. “Every time I think about it . . .” We told Silas and Klein what Dunn revealed. Klein was indifferent to it. His focus is all on Abraham’s murder, not delivering a bittersweet family reunion. Meanwhile, Silas’s face paled two shades, and he cursed under his breath three times before rifling through the liquor cabinet to pour himself a bourbon from a bottle my mom kept just for him.
He’s been taking a lot of heat over Abe’s case, being the ADA during that time. I can only imagine what it’ll be like if what my mom did—knowingly leaving a fifteen-year-old trafficking victim in a hotel room with a john—gets out to the media.
Who was my mom protecting? Who did she throw her friendship with Abe away for?
I’ve spent two days going through every photo album of my mother’s, looking for every red-haired white guy. I even called up Ashley Sheridan and made her list every red-haired guy on the force that my mom might have known. The list is short, and not promising.
I’ve come to the conclusion that Dunn is either mistaken . . . or he’s lying.
And if that’s the case, why?
Gracie squirms within my grasp, turning around to face me. She wraps her legs around my hips and her arms around my neck and whispers, “Don’t think about it. At least for now. Think about me instead. About this . . .” She leans in, covering my mouth with hers in a slow, teasing kiss.
My hands instinctively slide down to grip her hips, my fingers playfully tugging on the strings of her bikini bottoms. The backyard is private enough. Besides, I heard the neighbor’s car pull away not long ago. We don’t even have to go inside—
Cyclops goes tearing past us, his barks wild as he charges for the gate to the front yard.
Klein’s face appears. He frowns at the dog from the safety of the other side. “You want to call Cujo off?”
“Not really,” I growl, adjusting myself as Gracie pulls away. She climbs out using the pool steps and heads for the towel draped over a chair, giving both me and Kristian ample time to check out her body.
And that asshole isn’t even bothering to hide the fact that he’s getting a good look.
Gracie whistles and Cyclops trots over immediately, keeping his wary eye on our guest as Klein lets himself through the gate. He looks more official today, in a button-down shirt and black chinos.
“You couldn’t call?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Klein smirks. He knows exactly what was about to happen. But the amusement slides off his face abruptly. “You two need to get dressed and come with me. We’ll take my car.”
Unease sets in. “Why?”
“Because we’ve found Betsy.”
CHAPTER 57
Grace
“Hold on a sec,” Noah says, staying Kristian and Agent Tareen’s hands on their door handles. We sit quietly in the backseat of the dark FBI sedan and watch the woman in the front garden, inspecting a flowering bush. Her wide-brimmed hat hides her face, but the fitted shorts and T-shirt show off a young, fit body. “Is she the gardener? Or nanny?”
Klein smirks. “No, she lives here with her husband.”
“And you are one hundred percent positive
this is her?”
“More like ninety-five. But we can close that gap quickly by going up there and asking her.”
Noah shakes his head, unconvinced. He’s had that same skeptical look since we turned into this neighborhood of sprawling houses and huge properties and manicured lawns, one of the wealthiest in Austin according to him. “Gracie? What do you think?”
I think that my mom’s necklace is going to cut into the palm of my hand if I don’t stop squeezing it so tight. “There’s only one way to be sure.” Wouldn’t it be something—a sexually abused girl from a trailer park who was picked up by a human trafficking ring, now living in this mansion where she quietly plucks weeds? Seemingly at peace.
Noah sighs. “If you guys are wrong, this is going to be a really fucking awkward conversation, isn’t it?”
“Maybe we don’t lead with ‘were you a prostitute’?”
My heart is racing as I step out of the car to follow the two FBI agents up the interlocked path, Noah at my side.
“Mrs. Mandy Wheeler?” Kristian calls out.
Mandy Wheeler?
The woman turns, her platinum-blonde bob peeking out from beneath the rim of her hat. “We don’t accept door-to-door solicitation,” she responds in a crisp tone. Cool green eyes drift over us, stalling on me for a moment. They’re even lighter than mine.
And they definitely look familiar.
“We’re not here to sell anything, ma’am.” Kristian pulls out his FBI badge.
Wariness creeps into her features. She glances around to the neighbors on both sides. “What is this in regards to, then?”
“Are you Elizabeth Richards, originally from Tucson, Arizona?”
“No.” Her face pales a few shades.
She’s lying.
“Your mom’s name was Peggy Richards,” I hear myself say in a shaky voice. “Your father was Brian. You had an older sister named Dina, and she married Abraham Wilkes. They had a daughter together, named Grace. That’s me. I’m Grace.”
“How did you . . .” Her whispered words drift as her wide and teary eyes flitter between us.
