Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
“Considering I couldn’t bear to see you suffer the consequences, you have my word I won’t,” he bites off. “Never speak of it again.”
“I won’t if you won’t!” I throw back. “But if you ever want help, the offer stands. Come find me. I’ll point you in the right direction.”
I take a bigger risk then.
Digging around in my bag, I find a small notepad with a pen clipped to it.
I quickly jot down Micah’s number.
No name, nothing incriminating, then I rip the page off and offer it to Joseph.
He stares at it like it’s active plutonium, making no move to take it.
Sighing, I fold it in half and slip it in the breast pocket of his tailcoat.
I don’t know what I’m expecting him to say or do.
But he doesn’t say anything.
He just looks down, then up at me again, his lips thinning.
There’s the slow creak of the door opening. The click of the latch, a bit too hard and final.
And I’m alone, except for the agitated sound of Xavier’s muffled voice filtering through the walls.
Despair curdles my stomach.
God, I’m never going to find what Micah really needs.
That means he’ll have to keep plunging along, heading deeper into the danger zone. Whatever it takes to get close enough to the Jacobins for something more than circumstantial. Enough to hold up in court or at least get the Redhaven PD a legal warrant.
Ugh.
Something about that nags me, remembering how Micah never seems to mention any of the other guys on the force knowing about this or helping him.
It just seems off.
Especially when I’ve known Lucas Graves and Grant Faircross my whole life—or at least, known of them. I wasn’t part of their older friend groups growing up, but they always seemed like this shiny thing, always out of reach. People I observed from the outside in my sickly little bubble and desperately wished I could be like when I got older.
But everyone knows the story of Lucas’ sister, Celeste Graves.
How she was possibly having an affair with Montero Arrendell, only to disappear the same night Grant’s best friend Ethan vanished too.
It turns out, Ethan Sanderson was in love with Celeste and determined to save her from the Arrendell sickness.
Rumors plagued both cops their entire lives, especially when Grant had to defend his friend’s honor after people started whispering that maybe a jealous Ethan killed Celeste and then skipped town.
When the truth came out, first as a trickle and then as gushing horror, it never felt like it would stop.
And knowing what we do now, you’d think both Grant and Lucas would be ready to chew their own arms off for a chance to take down the last standing Arrendell brother left in town, and maybe the entire Jacobin clan with him.
So, yeah. It’s odd that they’re not in the thick of this.
Or maybe I’m making too much of it.
Micah doesn’t talk shop with me much.
It’s very possible the rest of the force are working other angles and he just hasn’t told me. I’m definitely not his police peer, spy girl or not.
More than anything, I’m just useful.
That hurts more than it should.
But I push the thought away and make myself useful right now, glancing at the closed door and listening for Xavier’s voice.
I can’t make out what he’s saying, but his voice isn’t changing like he’s moving around. He sounds annoyed and distracted. He’ll probably be busy for a few more minutes.
That’s enough time.
I circle the office, scanning the bookshelves, looking for anything and everything that might look like a ledger, suspicious papers wedged in books.
I pry open an old wood chest. Nothing but pungent cigars lined up neatly in a row.
I rifle through the stacks of unopened mail in his inbox and outbox, but they’re all from lawyers, investment firms, normal-looking business stuff.
Considering he was yelling about a boat, I check to see if I can find anything like a shipping manifest, but nope.
Nothing.
There are a few open envelopes on his desk. Only, when I take a careful peek at the contents, one is a tax form for charity donations and the other looks like a phone bill.
…oh, wait.
There are pages of call logs here.
I spread them across the desk with my heart slamming and dig out my phone. I take a quick snapshot of the lists of numbers, call times, inbound or outbound.
A few come out a little blurry with my hands trembling, but I get as much as I can before I stuff them in the envelope, leaving it where I found it.
His file cabinets are locked.
Dammit, of course they are.
But I try his desk drawers, opening one after the next. I don’t know what I’m expecting to find.
A convenient plastic baggie of cocaine, right next to that silver dish he had before and a rolled-up hundred-dollar bill?
Way too easy.