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She always had been.
He let out a long breath as he straightened, but then immediately regretted moving off the hood of the car. It was all well and good when they were having sex, but now his entire body had seized up. Pain shot down his back until he pulsed with agony. Shit. All good things come to an end. That was what his bastard father used to say.
He tried to stay still as he searched for his phone.
“Here,” Greer said, handing it to him. It had been on the hood of the car. “Anything from James?”
He glanced at the screen. “No.” James was a responsible kid. He should’ve reached out by now. His stomach knotted. “And it’s not like him.”
“Call him,” Greer suggested as she fixed her hair back into a bun.
Dalton hit the button on his phone. It rang a few times, and just when he thought it was going to go to voicemail, someone answered, “Hello.”
“Hello?”
“Yes?”
Did he dial the wrong number? No that wasn’t possible. He had it programmed into the phone. “I’m looking for James.”
“Mr. Hughes,” the voice said.
He knew that voice. All the air rushed out of his lungs, and his knees gave way. He sat heavily on the hood of the car. “Detective Haas. What is it? Is James okay?” He already knew the answer, but he prayed he was wrong.
“Mr. Hughes, where are you?”
“At the track. What’s going on?”
Detective Haas cleared his throat. “Mr. Macht is dead. I will meet you back at your hotel.”
Dalton hung up the call and stared straight ahead.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Greer asked.
“James is dead,” he said flatly. “This is all my fault.”
“Oh, God, Dalton. He was just a kid.” She collapsed next to him.
Resting his elbows on his knees, he dropped his head into his hands. His life and the lives of those he loved had taken a steep nose-dive in the last thirty-six hours. It was painful and unrelenting, and he wished he could just stop it all.
Greer draped an arm over his back in comfort and dipped her head to speak close to his ear. “It’s not your fault. Somewhere out there, someone is responsible for this mess, but it’s not you.”
Greer rose first, and tugging at his hand, pulled him upright. Without words, they made their way to the parking lot and headed back to the hotel. Dalton was rightfully upset, so Greer drove. When they got back to the hotel, Dalton waited with Greer in a lounge area off the main hallway. They hadn’t said much on the way over. There wasn’t much to say. Regret weighed so heavily on Dalton’s shoulders that he thought he might break. He should’ve kept his mouth shut. Just said, “Yup, it was a heart attack,” and then destroyed the video. The rest of this mess wouldn’t have happened. Whoever loosened those screws wouldn’t feel desperate and would stop trying to kill people. Every awful thing that had happened these few days was on him.
His gut was a giant void. Whoever was behind this was a madman, a desperate madman. Not someone to have as an enemy, and not Dalton’s choice. When someone screwed with Moore, they’d brought Dalton into it, but now one of his crew members was dead. Now, it was personal. All thoughts of backing off were gone. He was going to find the bastard that did this and make him pay.
Detective Haas walked in with Moser in tow. He took a seat across from Dalton. “Mr. Hughes, I am sorry for your loss.” Dalton just nodded before Detective Haas continued, “I need to ask a few questions to both of you”—he gave a quick nod to Greer—“but I need to do so separately. Ms. Styger, if you could move to a different room, that would be most helpful.”
Greer glanced at Dalton but stood up and left the room.
Detective Haas turned back to Dalton. “Now, Mr. Hughes, please go over the events of the evening. Why were you at the garage?”
“I got a text from James. He said you wanted to speak to him and he was freaking out. I said I’d come to the garage and be with him when he talked to you.” Dalton swallowed but found it difficult to speak. His throat had closed over and the throb in his head had intensified in the last thirty minutes. He tried swallowing again, but he didn’t seem to be able to make a sound.
Detective Haas must have realized his distress because he signaled Officer Moser, who immediately produced a steaming cup of black coffee.
Dalton blew on it before he sipped. It helped. He took a few more sips and then cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he finally managed to croak out. “James is”—his voice hitched—“was…a great kid. I’m…a bit lost at his death. How was he killed?”
Detective Haas tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at Dalton. “You’re very upset. Understandable.”
