Both Shane and Wilkins laugh, and I grin around the mouth of my bottle and take another swig, scanning the bar. As usual, it’s packed to the gills—twentysomethings, college kids, tourists, and bachelors and bachelorettes gathering in a mixing pot of sweat, booze, and country music. It doesn’t matter that it’s Thursday night: Everyone came to party, no matter if they have to wake up for work or class tomorrow.
Wilkins leaves our table to go chat with a bunch of Vandy cops sitting at the bar, and I laugh when I spot Kutch trying to dance with a bunch of coeds. Shane doesn’t miss it either.
“Boy’s got the stiffest moves in Nashville,” he says, his face amused as he watches Kutch try to join in on the line dance the girls around him have started up.
“He’s fighting for his life out there.”
Shane chuckles, patting me on the shoulder. “Maybe he just needs a little assistance from the Karaoke Cowboy.”
Anytime I step into this bar, I have my favorite cowboy hat ready and waiting for karaoke, but the stage isn’t calling me tonight like it normally does. The band is kicking ass and taking names up there. Tex’s magic fingers just strummed out one hell of an AC/DC “Thunderstruck” rendition a few songs ago. Buddy looks like fucking Bonham on the drums. And Reed’s bass skills are so on point, the vibrations from the speakers feel like they have the power to change my heart rhythm.
But for some reason, I’m not feeling all that enthusiastic about my usual song-and-dance routine.
Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just fucking tired.
Or maybe it’s Hannah.
Instantly, her distraught face flashes in my mind. Today was rough for her. The calls, the fact that I revealed the full truth about the Call Me Anytime case involving two girls who worked the Ruby line, just like her. She didn’t look good. She looked ... scared and sad and a whole mess of other things that made my chest hurt.
A sigh leaves my lungs, and I turn to Shane. “What do you think, man? Are we going to get any shit out of these callers?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs, taking a swig of beer before answering. “Definitely got some fucking weirdos to look into now and get background shit on, but I wouldn’t say I’ve got it all figured out either.”
“That guy today, though.” I eye him knowingly, and he picks up on exactly who I’m talking about—Waylon—without saying his name out loud. “There was something triggering about the way he wanted to cause pain, right?”
Shane’s eyes narrow slightly. “Well, yeah, Dom. I wouldn’t say fantasizing about hurting the women you’re fucking is something they would’ve featured onLeave It to Beaver. Still, doesn’t mean he’s a murderer.”
True.Just because someone is a sadist, that doesn’t make them capable of homicide.
I let out a deep exhale before taking another drink of my beer.
But it’s not just Waylon who’s stuck in my head. It’s Hannah. It’s her scared eyes staring back at me after I told her about Gwen. Her voice when she said she was worried for her mom and Lovie. It’s the guilt twisting in my gut for me being the one to drop that bomb on her.
“What’s your deal tonight?” Shane asks, his eyes narrowing even further as he scrutinizes my face. “We’re here to drink and have a good time, and your head’s all wrapped up in work shit. What gives?”
“I don’t know.” I lift one shoulder. “Hannah was pretty worked up. You didn’t see her right after the call, but she’s legitimately scared. And I feel a little to blame, to be honest.”
He jerks his head back. “Why would you be to blame?”
“I was trying to make her feel better about that fucking ... caller ... the partying, drug-pushing sadist ... and I ended up revealing the fact that there’s more than one girl involved in this case.”
“Fuck, man.”
“I know.” I shake my head and run a hand through my hair. “I fucking know.”
First rule of detective work: Don’t reveal facts about an active investigation ... to anyone. Not your mother, not your father, not your wife. And certainly not a girl you’re exploiting as a pseudo informant.
“I fucked up a bit,” I admit, and Shane reaches out to squeeze my shoulder.
“Don’t sweat it, Dom,” he says. “Shit happens.”
“Not to me,” I mutter, and he just gives me a hearty pat on the back before taking a quick swig of beer.
“I know you like being by-the-book Mr. Perfect Detective and shit, but not everything is so black and white, you know?” he says with a shrug. “When it comes to homicides, most of it falls in the bleak-as-fuck gray. You know it and I know it. And hell, maybe she needed to know the truth about ...” He trails off, but I know what he means.Maybe Hannah needed to know the truth about Gwen.
I hope he’s right, but I’ll be honest—the look on her face was the opposite of reassuring.
“She’s going to be fine,” Shane reassures me. “She’s just ... inexperienced. A little naive. I’m sure damn near a hundred percent of what she hears on those calls comes as a shock, but all in all, I’d say she’s handling it pretty well, you know? She’s strong. That much is clear.”
