by Devney Perry
Bryce opened her mouth but took one look at my gaze and clamped it shut again. There would be no debating this with Dad. She didn’t know him well enough to hear the conviction in his voice.
“So where are we?” Emmett asked, taking his hair in his hands to tie it up.
“We’re in the same place we were.” Dad sighed. “Whoever did this has me dead to rights. The cops know I was there. They have my fingerprints on my weapon. There’s nothing we can do but wait and hope someone gets stupid and starts talking.”
“That’s not happening.” I fisted my hands. “No one is talking. Whoever did this is patient. Really fucking patient. They’ve made no move against the rest of us.”
“They probably won’t,” Emmett said. “At least not yet. They’re waiting to see what happens with Draven.”
“Exactly,” Leo muttered. “Meanwhile, we’re stuck. And we all gotta keep looking over our shoulders until we can make some headway.”
“Or,” Bryce said quietly, “we use the one lead we have. We make sure this boyfriend didn’t start dating Amina to get to Draven. If the killer knew there was a connection between Draven and Amina, he could have been playing her from the beginning.”
“Agreed,” I said. “We need to track this guy down.”
“How?” Leo asked.
“We could ask her daughter,” Bryce suggested.
“No.” Dad’s bark echoed off the walls.
“Why not?” I pushed off the wall. Was Dad really that set on life in prison? “She might know who her mother was seeing.”
“No.” He pointed at my face. “The daughter is off-limits. She just lost her mother. She doesn’t need to be bothered by a goddamn reporter and the son of the man who is suspected of killing her mom. Leave her alone. That’s an order.”
It had been a long time since he’d issued an order. Not since the days when he’d worn the president patch for the Gypsies rather than me.
“Am I understood?” Dad asked Emmett and Leo.
“Understood,” they answered in unison.
Dad looked to me, his gaze hard and unwavering. “Dash?”
Fuck. Bryce was seething but I was pinned in the corner. I wouldn’t go against Dad. Not when he’d gone this far to make his point. “Understood.”
“We’re with you, Prez,” Emmett said as Leo’s head bobbed in agreement.
“Good,” Dad said. “And that goes for her too. She bothers the daughter, I’ll see to it that she’ll never write another story again. Hard to write when you’re missing your hands.”
Hell. Did he have to keep making it worse? That was over the top. If his intent was to scare Bryce, he had failed. She was livid. I could feel the heat of her anger from across the room. She’d probably melt the paint on the Mustang.
But I didn’t say a word as Dad marched out the door.
“Guess this meeting is over.” Leo hopped down from the bench as Dad rode away from the garage. He jerked his chin up at Bryce as he walked backward toward his bike. “Change your mind about that ride—”
“I’ll call Dash.”
Leo looked between us, realization dawning, then laughed. “Ah. Good luck, brother.”
Emmett followed him out, waving as he walked to his bike. “I’ll keep an ear open.”
“Do that,” I said. “Have a good weekend.”
“I will.” He grinned. “Think I might need another coffee.”
When the noise from their bikes was gone and the garage was quiet, I turned to Bryce.
“He threatened me.”
“Yes, he did.”
She lifted her chin. “Will you take his side?”
My immediate response was yes. I’d always support Dad and he’d made it clear where he stood. But if it came down to that, to hurting her, I knew the answer was no. “No. But it doesn’t matter because you’re not going to bother the daughter. You’re more compassionate than that.”
“We have to talk to the daughter,” she said immediately. “Maybe the boyfriend is nothing, but it’s the only new information we have.”
“Dad has a point. She just lost her mother. If she’s living in Denver, the chances that she even knows her mom’s weekend hookup are small anyway. It’s not worth stirring up a bunch of hurt.”
“Even if it means your dad spends the rest of his life in prison? Do you still think he’s innocent after threatening to cut. Off. My. Hands?”
I raked a hand through my hair. “He wouldn’t do it.” Maybe he would have years ago, but not now. “He’s just trying to scare you. And yes, he’s innocent. If he wants to spend his life in prison for a murder he didn’t commit, then I guess that’s the reality of the situation.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
No, it didn’t. Why won’t Dad fight? What is he hiding?
Draven Slater’s secrets were going to land him in the state penitentiary for the rest of his life. Son of a bitch. I clenched my teeth, resisting the urge to pick up a wrench and throw it across the shop. Why was he backing down? That wasn’t like him.
And why should I fight for his freedom when he wasn’t fighting himself?
“Don’t know what to do here, babe,” I confessed, shaking my head. “I’m pissed, for sure. But Dad’s right. I honestly don’t think the daughter is going to give us any information. And I’m at a dead end until Dad decides how hard he wants to push. All I can do is respect my father’s wishes while defending him because I know he’s innocent. What would you do if it was your father?”
“I don’t know.” Bryce’s anger vanished. Her voice softened. She crossed the room and put her delicate hand on my arm. “We both want the truth, but I have a story. I can print exactly what happens with his trial. With his conviction. We both know it will come down to that. And I can accept that he’s the killer. That justice is served. I can accept that as the truth. Can you?”
“He’s my dad,” I whispered. “It’s his choice.”
“Okay. Then I guess we’re done here.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
She dropped her hand and stepped away. “See you around, King.”
“Take care, Bryce.” My heart twisted. I was losing on both sides. Emmett had gotten one thing right: she was more than just under my skin. She was in there. Deeper than I wanted to admit to myself.
Her heels clipped on the floor as she made her way outside. But before disappearing, she paused and looked over her shoulder. “How about dinner, one last time?”
One last time.
“I’ll bring the beer.”
Chapter Sixteen
Bryce
Sitting alone at my kitchen island, I picked at my chicken salad sandwich.
Two weeks had gone by since the meeting in the garage and my last night with Dash. Dinners since had been eaten in this spot so I could watch out the front kitchen window, hoping to hear the thunder of his motorcycle before it pulled up to my curb.
I missed having an uninvited dinner guest. More and more each day, I missed Dash, and not only for the sex. I missed talking to him and hearing his voice. I missed the easy way he moved around my house. I even missed the snoring.
But I hadn’t heard a word from him. Our final parting had been, well . . . final.
My foolish heart had hoped I’d left a lasting impression. One that would make him yearn to see me again—the way I yearned. Clearly the sex I’d thought unforgettable was actually the opposite.
He’d probably found a new replacement at The Betsy to keep himself company. An easy feat for Dash Slater, finding a woman willing to take him to her bed. Sometimes all it takes is hello. The thought of him saying those words to another woman made my stomach roll.
I tossed down my sandwich, most of it uneaten. I hadn’t had much of an appetite over the last week. The gnawing feeling that I was quitting on Amina Daylee’s story had frayed my nerves.
How could Draven not want to find Amina’s killer? How could Dash be okay leaving a lead unfollowed? Especially given how strongly he believed
his father was innocent.
It didn’t make sense. It felt like giving up.
I hadn’t written anything about her murder or the Tin Gypsies in the past two weeks. My stories had been focused on summer activities around town, particularly the upcoming Independence Day parade and the holiday’s various celebrations.
Because I wasn’t sure what to write yet. Without new information on Amina’s murder case or knowing when Draven would be brought to trial, there was nothing to print. And I wasn’t ready to write a story on the former Tin Gypsy MC.
The information Dash had told me on the record would suffice for an easy Sunday feature. A popular one too. But for me, that story was dull. Lifeless. The good stuff was all the things he’d told me off the record. Since he’d kept his end of the bargain not to hide things from me, I’d be keeping mine too.
Or had he?
The meeting at the garage played over and over in my mind. Draven’s insistence we not talk to the daughter had been nagging at me. I didn’t know the man from Adam, but he’d been so firm.
Was he always like that? Was he just trying to intimidate me? I believed his threat, more so than I’d believed any Dash had given me. If I went to Amina’s daughter, he’d retaliate. He might even cause me physical harm.
And that was why I had to go.
Draven’s insistence was more than sparing the feelings of a grieving child. He was hiding something. Was I the only one who saw it?
Either Dash didn’t care, blinded by his loyalty to his father, or Dash knew Draven’s secret and was lying to me—which meant my story would include every word he’d spoken about the Gypsies.
I’d been waiting to see if something came up—it wouldn’t. Murderers with a lick of sense didn’t go around talking about said murder. They certainly didn’t brag about framing a notorious criminal. And Amina’s murderer was smarter than your average gummy bear.
Screw Draven’s threat. And screw Dash for making me miss him. Besides, Draven would never know I was leaving. Not unless he was following me too.
Picking up my phone, I opened my United Airlines app and checked into my flight leaving tomorrow morning for Denver.
Then I flipped open the yellow notepad sitting next to me, reading Genevieve Daylee’s address for the hundredth time.
“Thanks,” I said to my Uber driver as I got out of the car.
The late-morning air was fresh and warm in Colorado. The sunshine beat down bright. I’d gotten up long before dawn to drive to Bozeman and catch my flight, watching the sun rise from my tiny window on the airplane. Then I’d ordered a ride to Genevieve’s.
The condos on this street were all the same, a row of tan siding with white grid windows. Genevieve had a planter full of purple and pink petunias by her door, brightening up her stoop.
I took a deep breath, pinned my shoulders back and walked up the sidewalk. After a sure knock, I waited.
Maybe I should have called first, but not wanting to raise any questions or have word get back to Draven that I’d contacted her, I’d risked a surprise visit. It was a gamble that she’d even be home, but it was a Saturday and hopefully I’d get lucky. If not, my return flight would be delayed until I could find some time to see her.
Light footsteps, a quick flip of the lock and the door opened.
“Hello.” She smiled.
“H-hi.” I did a double take. She looked so much like Amina. Familiar, but there was something else there too. Something I couldn’t put my finger on.
Her hair was dark and long, curled into thick spirals. Her face was heart shaped with flawless skin. Her eyes were a deep brown that I was sure I’d seen somewhere before. And she had her mother’s chin and mouth.
“Can I help you?”
I snapped myself out of my stupor, smiling and holding out my hand. “Hi. I’m Bryce Ryan. Are you Genevieve Daylee?”
“Yes.” She hesitantly took my hand. “Do I know you?”
“No. We’ve never met. I’m a reporter from the Clifton Forge Tribune.”
“Oh.” She inched away, lifting a hand to the door.
“I was hoping you might be willing to help me,” I said before she could shut me out. “I’m writing a special piece on your mom. A story to show who she was and what her life was like before.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Because her death was awful and tragic. Because people killed in that way are so often remembered for the way they died, not the way they lived.”
Genevieve let my words linger. I was sure she’d slam the door in my face, but then the hesitancy in her face vanished and she opened it wider. “Come on in.”
“Thank you.” I stepped in behind her, letting out the breath I’d been holding. When I inhaled, the scent of chocolate and brown sugar filled my nose. My stomach growled, starved from only eating the small bag of airplane pretzels. “It smells incredible in here.”
“I made chocolate chip cookies. Mom’s recipe. I was missing her today.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
She gave me a sad smile, leading me through the clean and cozy living room and into the breakfast nook off the kitchen. “Some days it doesn’t feel like it’s real. That I’ll call her and she’ll pick up the phone.”
“Were you close?” I asked as she waved me into a chair.
“We were. Growing up, it was just the two of us. She was my best friend. We had our struggles when I was a teenager, normal mom-daughter fights. But she was always there for me. She always put me first.”
“Sounds like a great mom.”
Her eyes welled with tears. “Why would he do this to her?”
He meaning Draven. Genevieve thought Draven had killed her mother. Dash had planted enough doubts in my mind that I’d been operating under the possibility he was innocent.
But as far as the world was concerned, as far as Genevieve knew, Draven Slater was Amina’s murderer.
“I don’t know. I wish things were different.”
“Me too.” She pushed away from the table in a flurry, going to the kitchen and getting two glasses from a hickory cupboard. Then she filled them both with milk from the fridge and brought them to the table. Next came a heaping plate of freshly baked cookies. “I’m grief eating. If you leave here and this plate has any cookies left, I’ll be disappointed in both of us.”
I laughed, taking a cookie. “We can’t have that.”
The first cookie was inhaled, followed quickly by a second. After the third, we each gulped some milk, then looked at one another and smiled.
Maybe she seemed familiar because she was so welcoming. So friendly. She’d brought me into her home, shared a piece of her mother and trusted me to take care of it. Naïve? Yes, slightly. Or she wasn’t jaded to the world. She didn’t expect people to lie, cheat and steal.
I envied her.
“God, these are good.” I took a fourth cookie.
“Right? I don’t know where she got this recipe but it’s the only one I’ll ever use.”
“I might have to steal it from you.”
“If I give it to you, will you put it in your story? I think Mom would have liked sharing that one with the world.”
My hand went to my heart. “It would be my pleasure.”
Genevieve’s eyes drifted past my shoulder, staring blankly into her living room behind us. “Mom and I didn’t get to see each other much. Not after she took that job in Bozeman and moved to Montana.”
“Did you grow up in Denver?”
“I did. We lived about five miles from here. I went to the high school you probably passed on your way in.”
A sprawling red brick building five times the size of my high school. “Is that why she moved to Bozeman? Her job?”
“Yeah. Mom worked for a plumbing supply company. They were expanding and started an office in Bozeman. She volunteered to go. But you probably already knew all of that.”
“Only the name.” The internet could tell me all about the company, its branch office
s and its products. But it didn’t tell me about Amina. The internet couldn’t tell me about the person she’d been. “Was she good at her job?”
“She was,” Genevieve said with pride. “She worked for that company from the beginning and they really loved her. It was like a family. I knew all her coworkers growing up. A few of them would hire me in the summers to mow their lawns. They all came to my college graduation.” Her voice hitched. “Her boss helped me plan her funeral.”
My heart squeezed. I couldn’t imagine having to plan my mother’s funeral. “Sounds like she was the type of person who made close, lifetime friendships.”
“She loved. People were drawn to her for it. It was hard being a single mom. My grandparents passed before I was born so she did it all by herself. She never complained. She never treated me like a burden. She just built this life for us. A happy one.”
Genevieve dropped her chin, sniffling. I stayed quiet, the emotion clogging my throat, as she wiped her eyes dry. When she looked up, she forced a smile.
“I should have called,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m here, surprising you. I should have called first.” Goddamn it. Draven had been right about that, hadn’t he?
I’d let the weeks of silence from Dash irritate me. And now I was here bothering a young woman who’d lost the most important person in her life.
“No, I’m glad you’re here.” Genevieve took another cookie. “I haven’t talked about Mom in a couple of weeks. It was a flurry after she was . . . you know. Everyone was so shocked and I was so busy getting her memorial arranged. People talked about her then. But after it was over, it got quiet. People went back to their lives.”
“And you’re here.”
“I’m here. Heartbroken.” She took a bite and chewed it with a quivering chin. “But it’s nice to talk about how wonderful she was. And not about how she died. The only person who’s talked to me about her this week is the prosecutor in Clifton Forge and that’s only because I want to keep tabs on the trial.”
