by Elle Keaton
The money?
Where it had all gone was still partially a mystery. Stephen had invested a great deal in an IPO a buddy claimed was a “sure thing.” It failed spectacularly. That had been four months ago; he had not been able to recoup his losses. He also would probably be investigated for tax evasion, as there were several shell companies money had been funneled to with remote or nonexistent addresses and fictitious owners. The house payments were behind and far out of Sterling’s reach. Sybil would have to put the house on the market immediately; the Tesla and Lexus would have to go, too.
Shit. Car. He still had Buck’s car. Fuck.
“Buck, I’m—shit, with all the stuff happening I forgot I still had your car.” Sterling cringed; he hardly knew the guy and he’d accidentally kept his car?
“Hey, Sterling.” Buck’s lazy drawl was clear even on his cell phone. “It’s no big deal. I meant it, I always help out a friend. If I needed it, I knew where to find it.”
“I, uh, appreciate the generosity. I really do.” He debated with himself for a few seconds before adding, “Sybil, my mother, she is going to have to sell their cars. Any chance you have something reliable she can drive?”
Not that she would be driving soon. His mother was wandering around in a persistent daze. Sterling almost felt sorry for her and found it darkly ironic that helping her find a place to live had fallen on his shoulders. He had a moment when he considered not lending a hand. But he wasn’t able to do that. Seeing her attack Stephen had been epic, although not worth getting shot for. He still couldn’t believe Stephen had threatened them all with a loaded gun. The scene had been so unreal. He rubbed the bandage covering his stitches. He also couldn’t believe how much it had hurt.
“Yeah, man, I got a couple things. Come by tomorrow, bring Sheila, we’ll figure it out.” Sterling almost teared up at the unconditional offer.
Stephen had seen his last free sunlight for years, Sterling hoped it was for the rest of his life. Sterling didn’t feel an ounce of pity for him. He could rot in fucking hell. Sterling would be in the front seat with popcorn and a giant box of Hot Tamales.
Sterling finally asked Adam about Weir.
“Took you long enough.”
Sterling rolled his eyes. He didn’t have time for Adam’s crap. He was back in his own apartment, which felt unusually lonely. Raven was staying with Sybil in a tiny house Sterling had been able to rent with the proceeds from the cars and the blood of a newborn. He was managing the bar, what was left of his family—or maybe what his family had grown into—and sorting out his finances. The finances were confusing, because he had seen with his own eyes that the money was gone, and yet… when he had checked just before payroll, there had been more money. Every day there was a little more. He couldn’t figure out where it was coming from.
He had his suspicions, though.
“Just answer my fucking question.”
Adam and Micah were sitting in their spot at the bar. With all the shit going on in his life, Sterling was still only working Mondays and Tuesdays.
“I thought bartenders were supposed to be chatty and understanding. Worldly.”
“You thought wrong.”
“Adam,” Micah warned with a smile. Because, yeah, fucking foam heart on his latte.
“Weir is complicated,” Adam began, paused, tapped the bar top, then continued. “He’s one of the smartest guys I’ve ever worked with. He makes lightning-fast connections, knows a lot, remembers more. Amazing with a computer. The guy has a PhD in statistical modeling. Which, while valuable, bores the shit out of me.”
“But?” Sterling asked, filing the information away. Weir had never told him he had his PhD. Sterling only had an associate’s degree.
“But. Yeah. But. I’m not sure he wants to be the federal wonder boy. I think he ended up a fed kind of on accident. And he’s good at it, so it’s hard for him to admit that maybe it’s not what he wants. Plus…”
“Esther.”
“He told you about Esther? I don’t think he’s told Micah about Esther.” Adam looked at Micah for confirmation; he shook his head.
“I think it was the medication he was on, after the accident.” Probably.
Adam appeared to have an internal debate before continuing for Micah’s benefit. “Weir’s older sister, Esther, disappeared when he was five or so. She never came home. His family fell apart. I know a lot of why he decided to become an agent was informed by that experience. I’m just not sure that, for Weir, it’s the right reason.”
“So?” Sterling prodded.
“He went back to LA. It was hard for him, I think, seeing you get Raven back.” He held up a hand. “Don’t misinterpret—he’s happy for you. But it may have been harder than he expected, seeing you get what he didn’t.”
Huh. Sterling was an idiot.
“He’s still on medical leave for a little longer. He’ll be cleared for light duty soon.”
“And then?”
“And then we find out.”
Huh.
He thought he’d been relieved that Weir was gone, that they had drifted a little too close to relationship territory for Sterling’s comfort. He’d even admitted to liking the guy, but neither of them was looking for a relationship, right? Fuck, he wasn’t relationship material, not for someone as smart and focused as Weir.
Days stretched into a week, then nearly two, and Sterling found himself angry. Angry with Weir for abandoning him, that he would leave with no word, no goodbye. Stubbornly, he refused to call or text him.
Recently he had been remembering silly things: TV they’d watched, weird conversations about the relevancy of the Dewey system, the history of the American highway, why Weir thought honeybees were disappearing and what could be done about it. Actually cooking. Sterling missed Weir, missed even his ridiculous jokes, just didn’t know what to do about it.
Then Raven ambushed him.
Needing to get away from the Loft and his tiny apartment, he had gone to the Booking Room. It was relatively quiet, and he was able to snag a table near the back. Foolishly, he chose to sit with his back to the door, or he would have had more warning than her plopping down in the chair on the other side of the table.
She had been a rock star through the kidnapping and the events that followed. She claimed she’d known they were being held in the carriage house from the smells and sounds. That knowledge had kept her from panicking, but not from plotting her fantasy revenge against Stephen and Sybil when she and Pony were finally released.
Sybil’s involvement seemed to be peripheral, and the law didn’t like putting two parents in jail when there was a minor child. Well, they did, but Sybil had a good lawyer and evidence that she was, at worst, an enabler.
“Why haven’t you called Weir?”
“How do you know I haven’t?”
“He told me.”
What the fuck? “He told you?”
“Yeah, we were texting and I asked him.”
“He hasn’t texted me.”
Immediately, Sterling knew that was the wrong thing to say. Raven’s black eyebrows, identical to his own, quirked up in disbelief. Her mouth gaped open before she clamped it shut, instead taking a lungful of air in through her nose. Sterling recognized one of his own coping mechanisms and chuckled. Internally, because she was about to rip into him.
“I thought I was the younger kid. Are you kidding me now?”
“Can you keep your voice down?” Oh, yeah, his brain was not functioning properly at all.
Raven’s voice dropped to a hiss that without a doubt could be heard across the café. Ira was wiping down tables and pretending not to listen, but Sterling could see his shoulders shaking with laughter. Asshole.
“You are acting like you’re twelve. Did it ever occur to you that maybe you need to be the one to reach out? He told me about his sister.” Sterling’s eyes widened. “Gah, men, you’re all useless and deserve to be miserable. You, specifically, quit taking it out on everyone around you.
Poor Cameron.”
Cameron had confessed that he had taken the liquor. But not to drink it. He had been trying to teach himself how to toss bottles and pour drinks. From what Sterling understood, he was very lucky the entire back bar hadn’t gone down. “How do you know about Cameron?”
“Alex from GSA is his younger sister. He’s why she’s in the club.”
“Were they right? About Pony’s parents wanting to send them away and you were going to help them escape?”
Ha, finally he had the upper hand. He saw the guilty flinch.
“Yeah,” she replied glumly. “We were at Patty’s, planning. I was going to take money from my savings.” They fell silent, thinking how much had changed in the past month.
They would be fine. Raven had a roof over her head.
“What’s happening with Pony?”
“They’re finishing the school year, then moving to Seattle to live with an aunt. I guess she left town a long time ago, but when she found out what was happening to Pony she drove up here and confronted Pony’s dad. There was some kind of ‘reckoning,’ and suddenly Pony is being treated better and excited about moving to Seattle.”
“You’re gonna miss her—them—sorry.” He cringed, hating it when he messed up the pronouns.
Raven smiled a little. “Yeah, we aren’t like best friends or anything, but they will do way better down there.” She shook a finger at him. “You are still on my shit list. Do something about Weir, and quit being a complete asshole to your employees.”
She gave him a big hug before she left, leaving him to brood about Weir and contemplate how his view on life had changed since Weir had come into it. His eyes widened at his internal, unintended pun, and he snickered inadvertently. Quickly gathering his things before he could change his mind, he headed back to the bar to clear the air and see about the future.
Twenty-Seven
The computer screen taunted Weir.
Strict instructions to stay away, let Sammy take over his open cases, notwithstanding, he knew he’d seen something: a tiny factoid that was important and could lead them closer to Peter Krystad’s killer. He was still not convinced the murder had anything to do with those fucking geoducks. It was something he’d seen relatively recently. Maybe when Sammy had been at Micah’s?
He was not thinking about Sterling Fucking Bailey.
Not.
Mohammad had asked him to think long and hard about his commitment to the team.
“It is your choice, of course.” His deep voice rumbled across their connection. “You are an incredibly competent investigator and an asset to my team. Yet I am not convinced your heart is in it. Did you know I initially joined the military?”
No, Weir had not known that. There was a lot he didn’t know about Mohammad.
“I wanted to prove, among other things, that regardless of my name and my religion, I was just as loyal an American as Joe Blow from Tulsa.”
“Tulsa?”
“An example. I grew up in Dallas. Don’t distract me. I did it, I qualified. Served for six years. But I wasn’t happy. Many reasons. The overarching one was, being in the military made no difference to how anyone else saw me. I was still that Muslim with the funny name. And yet I was still from Dallas. Still a loyal American.”
Weir was unsure why Mohammad was sharing this with him.
“Okaaay?”
He heard Mohammad’s sigh. Could picture him rolling his eyes upward, trying to think of a way to get his point across. Weir waited. One did not rush their team leader.
“I often forget how young you are. When I was twenty-six, I had only just gotten out of the army. Ida and I hadn’t met. I went back to school, where I eventually got a degree in criminal justice. You have done all of that and more, but you are still young.”
Weir paced while he listened, looking out the sliding door. The beach was beckoning, a siren of sorts. He only had a peek-a-boo view; the condo he’d bought with the money Ben left to him was tiny, with only a hint of balcony, but he knew the glittering sand and endless expanse of ocean lay just a few blocks away, waiting for him. At the same time, as much as he had bitched about the weather while he was in Skagit, he missed the craggy mountains and evergreens that dominated the landscape there.
What was Mohammad trying to tell him without actually saying the words out loud?
“I would like you to spend some time, over the next few weeks, considering whether being a federal agent is really what you want to do with your life. Have you ever asked that question of yourself, Carroll?”
Oh, man. Dude. He needed open space. Being cooped up in the condo wasn’t doing him any good.
“Are you saying I’m not good enough?”
“No, Carroll.” Fuck, he hated when Mohammad used that tone. “I supported your joining the team in the first place; do you think that is something I would do lightly? For someone I need to trust to have my other agents’ backs? You are an excellent agent. What I am asking is for you to take some time to make sure that this life is what you want.”
The conversation rocketed around in his head. He’d always wanted to be a cop, an agent, right? Ben was his hero. Weir needed to do something with his own life to honor the man who’d saved him.
Ben had been silenced too soon. Weir badly wanted to be able to ask his advice now. He felt rudderless. Since Ben died, he had swept from single point to single point, keeping his head down, managing through sheer force of will to put one foot in front of the other. Was he doing the right thing? Who was he living his life for, himself or the ghosts that haunted him?
Before Weir knew it, April bled into May. He’d been back in LA for weeks with nothing to show for it except for a tan and a few missed calls he didn’t care about. Fleeing Skagit had not brought him clarity. Well, it had: it had become abundantly clear he had no life here, either. He loved the surf and needed the open space, but there were no people here for him. He’d left them in Skagit. Now he couldn’t figure out how to get himself back up there.
Raven had continued to text him. At first he had been confused as to why she would reach out. Once he had gotten over the weirdness, he accepted her overture for what it was: friendship.
They ended up having a lot in common. Not once did she mention her brother, except in passing. Raven was fun to talk to—different from Sterling, but turning out to be a good friend; she was not your average sixteen-year-old girl. She quizzed him about living in California, coding, working for the feds, surfing. Every once in a while she had a question about the legal situation with her parents. Those he had a harder time answering.
He’d heard from Sammy that Mrs. Bailey had not been a part of the kidnapping. She hadn’t known the teens were on the property. What that said about her powers of observation and her ability to keep her head buried so deep in the sand he worried about lack of oxygen to her brain, Weir wasn’t sure. At any rate, she had been questioned and released. Raven had mixed feelings about living with her. She worried that by living with her mom she was hurting Sterling’s feelings. And, man, Weir was not equipped to help her with that. His mother issues were deep and unresolved.
The beach, even late on a Tuesday, was far too fucking crowded. Weir recognized some familiar faces. Nobody he wanted to talk to, no one who made him laugh. A couple guys he’d fucked once and couldn’t care less about. It was a good thing he had his sunglasses on while he detoured through the sunbathers and kids with buckets and shovels, so they couldn’t tell how disgusted he was with their mere presence.
Eventually, he reached the ever-changing boundary line where the last vestige of each wave urged itself relentlessly and futilely toward dry land before sliding back to start again. Kicking off his flip-flops, Weir stood still, allowing the ocean to gently purge him. A sort of sacrament. Wave after wave rushed toward him, slowing as they approached where he stood, sweeping across the top of his feet before taking much of his bad mood and frustration with life in general back with them into the depths.
Weir sat in t
he sand as the tide went out, his arms across his knees as he stared out across the horizon. These past weeks had been the first in his adult life when he had time to think. He wasn’t officially on a case; he wasn’t in school, training, testing, planning a funeral. He was being.
The last rays of the setting sun stretched across the Pacific, tinting distant clouds a lusty pink, before he stood back up. The beach had emptied somewhat; only the diehards were left. Still a significant crowd, but at least the shrieking kids had been bundled up and taken home. He gathered his thoughts from where they had been spread along with the wisps of cloud and streams of rosy light. Brushing off his butt, he jammed his feet back into his flip-flops, not certain what he had resolved, if anything.
Before Sterling, before landing in Skagit, he had ignored his lack of friends, but with nothing to do except twiddle his thumbs it was hard not to notice how empty his life was. Even if he’d been close with people from high school—which he wasn’t—they wouldn’t be local now. In college he had been the young freak. People thought it was so funny to call him “Doogie Howser.” Ha fucking ha. And original, too. So, yeah, note to self, no friends in LA.
Mohammad’s directive rang in his head: “Ask yourself, is this what you really want to do?”
He had no fucking idea.
Although the more he let Mohammad’s words rattle around in his brain, the more he considered that maybe, possibly even likely, the answer was not in LA and not with the feds. It was nice texting with Raven, but would her brother be as welcoming after he had fled like a coward?
Screw it. He was going back to the condo and brooding over his laptop until he figured out what it was he’d seen in Sammy’s notes.
Twenty-Eight
How hard could it be to find one guy on the beach?
Really fucking hard. The beach ran for miles and was packed with humanity.
