“We all want the same thing here, Sheriff,” Brandt said, though Ghost could hear the lie in his voice. “The truth. Justice. Safety for this community.”
“Then we’re already on the same page.” Goodwin smiled then, and it chilled the air. “The Padilla case is closed. Her uncle all but confessed in his suicide note.”
Before Ghost could think better of it, he was on his feet and at the bars.
“What?” he demanded at the same time Walker asked, “Sampson Padilla’s dead?”
Goodwin didn’t bother trying to conceal that cold smile. “He hanged himself in his shop last night. His brother found him this morning.”
Nobody said anything for a handful of beats.
“If he confessed, what was his motive?” Brandt finally asked.
“Money, what else? The auto shop wasn’t doing as well as he wanted everyone to believe. He was involved with some unsavory people—cartel, most likely—and Leelee got caught in the crossfire. Tragic, but straightforward. One bad apple, not a conspiracy.”
Ghost watched Goodwin’s face as he spoke—the subtle tells, the micro-expressions. The way his left eye twitched slightly when he mentioned Sampson’s suicide. The slight rush of his words when he dismissed the idea of a larger trafficking operation. He’d interrogated enough liars in dark rooms across the globe to recognize deception when he saw it. This wasn’t just a man protecting his jurisdiction or refusing to admit he’d missed something. This was deliberate.
“A convenient suicide,” Brandt observed, his electric blue eyes never leaving Goodwin’s face. “I think I’ll still question the girls.”
Goodwin’s jaw tightened. “This is my county. My jurisdiction. You want to start questioning my citizens based on conspiracy theories and the word of an ex-con who can’t control his temper, you can get a warrant.”
“Oh, I will,” Brandt assured him. “But right now, I’m more interested in why you’re so determined to shut down this investigation. Why you’re working so hard to pretend there’s no connection between Leila Padilla, Mary Rose Charlo, and the other missing women across three counties.”
“There is no connection,” Goodwin insisted, though that unhealthy flush crept up his neck again. “Just the overactiveimagination of a woman who couldn’t cut it at the FBI and a bunch of felons playing detective.”
Walker straightened, his weathered face settling into lines of stone. “Ghost gets released. Tonight. Or I start making calls to people who make you look very, very small, Hank.”
Ghost stared at the back of Walker’s head. Fuck. Did he mean Isolde Mara? He wouldn’t dare. Ghost had never told him the entire story, but he knew enough to know the woman was a snake who couldn’t be trusted not to bite the hand that feeds her.
Goodwin scoffed. “Threatening an officer of the law, Walker?” He scribbled a note on a legal pad in front of him. “Adding that to the list of charges for when I finally shut down your fucking ranch.”
“It wasn’t a threat,” Walker replied without heat. “It was a courtesy. One last chance for you to do this the easy way.”
“You think you’re saving the world out at that ranch of yours,” Goodwin spat. “Playing at redemption. But some men can’t be saved. Some men are just irredeemable, through and through.”
“Bullshit,” Boone growled.
Goodwin’s eyes flicked to him. “You stay out of this, nephew.” Then back to Walker: “This is what happens when you collect broken men and tell them they’re heroes, Nash. Sooner or later, the cracks show. Sooner or later, they snap.” He gestured toward Ghost. “He’s exactly where he belongs. Behind bars, where he can’t hurt anyone else.”
Walker went very still, and Ghost recognized the look that settled over his face. It was the same expression he’d worn the day River had nearly drowned in the flash flood—a terrible, focused calm that preceded swift, decisive action.
“You’d know all about irredeemability, wouldn’t you, Hank?”
Goodwin flinched as if Walker had struck him. The sheriff’s jaw worked silently for a moment, a vein pulsing in his temple.
“You’re still holding onto that, aren’t you?” Goodwin finally managed. “After all these years. My father’s sins aren’t mine, Nash.”
“Aren’t they?” Walker’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “Because from where I’m standing, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
Goodwin’s shoulders had drawn up, defensive. His breathing quickened. Whatever history existed between Walker and the Goodwin family, it ran deep—and it was a nerve Walker knew exactly how to strike.
Brandt cleared his throat. “I’ll have that warrant by morning, Sheriff. In the meantime, I strongly suggest you release Mr. Booker into my custody.”
Goodwin stared at Brandt for a long moment, then flicked his gaze to Walker. His face twisted into something ugly before settling back into calculated neutrality.
“Fine.” He reached for his keys and tossed them to a deputy hovering nearby. “Let him go. But he stays away from my town and my officers.”
The deputy moved toward Ghost’s cell with obvious reluctance, fumbling with the keys as if they might bite him. Ghost remained perfectly still, not wanting to give anyone an excuse to change their minds. The lock clicked, and the door swung open with a metallic groan that scraped against his nerves.
