Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 73754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
The sunshine and fresh air were more than welcome. It was the equivalent of breaking through the surface of a pool for a deep breath after testing how long you could hold your breath for.
“That got intense,” I said as we made it to the car. I tried not sinking into defeat, but I couldn’t stop my shoulders from slumping. “And also pointless.”
“It wasn’t pointless. We could have used the sheriff’s help on this, but we definitely don’t need it. I’ve been a detective for six years now, and in all that time, I’ve worked with the cops about twice. Hell, Stonewall Investigations was pretty much created because of assholes like Pope. Zane, Stonewall’s founder, saw how the cops were stepping all over the people they saw as ‘less than.’ He saw how queer people, people of color, disabled folk were all being treated in situations where all they needed was help. So he opened up Stonewall and dedicated our mission to helping the people who were being most neglected by the system.”
“Sounds like Zane’s one hell of a good guy.”
“He is, he is.”
I leaned against the trunk of the car, seeing Austin in an entirely different light. Not only because of the intense (although brief) time we had spent together in the cabin, but because of seeing Austin in his element. He looked like a bloodhound chasing down a fresh trail, and I could tell nothing would stop him from reaching the truth.
“So then, what’s next?” I asked, trying to soak up some of Austin’s optimism. “We think Hank was murdered, but we’ve got no way of figuring that out.”
He smiled, and I cocked my head. “What are you smiling about?”
“Because you’re really not giving me much credit.” He dug something out of his pocket and held it out in his open palm.
“A key?”
His annoyingly cocky (and also incredibly handsome) smile grew larger. “Not just a key. This is Hank’s key, and I plan on using it. Domino dropped it. Of course I’ll return it to him… tomorrow.”
“Damn, you’re good.” That optimism I tried to soak up hit me like a firecracker. “I didn’t think I’d be breaking and entering today, but if it means getting some answers, then let’s fucking do it.” I opened the car door and sat down in the driver’s seat. “Is it considered breaking and entering if you’ve got the key?”
Austin nodded as he got in. “Yes, technically it is. But you don’t have to worry about that since all you’re doing is dropping me off on the corner of his block, and I’ll handle the rest.”
I gave him a “yeah fucking right” look as I pulled out of the parking spot. “Austin, I think it’s been decided that I’m the Robin to your Batman. The Bonnie to your Clyde. The Billie to your Eilish.”
“Huh?”
“The Taylor to your Swift. The Bey to your Oncé. The Wonder to your Woman.”
“I lost you at—”
“We’re the perfect fucking team. I’m pretty sure that was obvious to you back when we were kids, even though I can’t remember, and it’s obvious to me now: we work really damn well together, so you and I are going to break into this house and figure out who the hell wants to kill me.” I pressed my foot down a little too hard on the gas, pushing us back into our seats as I left the precinct. “Okay?”
Austin kept his gaze straight ahead, but I could have sworn I saw that bastard crack a smile. “Okay.”
And then he asked, “Who the hell is Billie Eyelash?”
That got a laugh out of me. “Billie Eilish. Amira’s always listening to her music. I think you’d like her—you’re into all those moody kinds of songs.”
“I am, actually… how did you know? I don’t think we’ve talked about that since I’ve been back.”
“I, uh, well, I guess I remembered that about you… huh.”
Nothing else rose from the murky blankness of those years that Austin and I had been secretly together, even though I tried digging up anything I could. At a certain point (and after an almost-missed stop sign), I had to focus on the road instead of our past.
Hank Trainor lived close to his club, actually only a few streets away from it, on the cusp of the town line. The houses and neighborhoods leading to his house weren’t the nicest, but driving up to his place made it clear what money could buy you. He lived alone, on the top of a hill, on a property that was surrounded by a tall black gate and a bank of evergreen pines that hid a lot of the property and gave him a natural wall of privacy. The gate didn’t open for our car, but Austin spotted a small door that was swinging open near the main lockbox.