He furrows his brow, and I know what he’s thinking:You’re no longer on this case, brother, so it’s not your concern.
“Just fucking tell me.”
“Dunphy and McHugh alibied out too. And we’re not talking soft alibis. I mean, ironclad ones. There’s no way they were anywhere in the vicinity of the murders.”
“And the captain is pulling the wiretap?”
“Our warrant’s just about expired anyways.”
“What the hell, man?” I don’t even know what to say or think or feel. “I fucking trusted you to stay on top of that case. And now you have no suspect and no fucking wiretap?”
“I think you need to slow your roll,” Shane retorts, and his jaw clenches with each word. “You and I both know it’s not an easy case to solve and the original warrant we got was practically by a miracle. I’m doing everything I can, Dom. Every fucking thing I can.”
“Son of a bitch.” I grip the back of my neck, my mind swirling with what all of it means for Hannah. What could happen if no one is actively listening to her calls.
Anger vibrates within every cell in my body. I’m pissed at Shane for telling me everything was on the right track with this case and it not being on the right track at all. I’m mad at myself for pulling myself off the case, even though I know it was the right thing to do.
I’m pissed at Hannah for being so stubborn and prideful that she won’t even talk to me now. I’m mad that I can’t protect her, even though I feel like her safety is in jeopardy.
“We’re already working on getting the captain to put a few officers on the case to relisten to all of the calls we’ve recorded,” Shane updates me, but it does nothing for my state of mind. If anything, it only urges more anger.
And the irony of it all: I pulled myself from the case because of my relationship with her. A relationship that no longer exists because I fucked things up.
I’m mad at the whole goddamn world, but when I see the way Shane is looking at me, his brow furrowing as if he’s waiting for me to lose my ever-loving shit, I know I have to rein it in. He already feels that I’m a quick trigger—going off on him right now won’t get me anywhere. It certainly won’t encourage him to keep me updated on the CMA case, that’s for damn sure.
I swallow hard against the onslaught of anger that wants to spew from my lungs. I shut my eyes and take a deep breath and force myself to keep it together.
He’s still eyeing me closely, but I force a neutral expression on my face. He doesn’t know all the details of what went down with Hannah and me—doesn’t know that I’m in love with her or that she’s kicked me to the fucking curb—and in the name of keeping my finger on the case’s pulse, I’m not going to reveal any of that to him.
The less he knows, the better.
“You ready to talk to the neighbor?” I question as I give my best impression of cool, calm, and collected.
Eventually, he nods. “All right, man. Let’s do it.”
I’m worried as hell about Hannah. I’m worried about Sherry and Lovie too.
And more than anything, I hate that I feel like I have zero control over anything right now.
Fuck.
40
Hannah
Friday, June 21
12:00 p.m.
“Hello?” a female voice answers.
“Hi!” I reply, checking my computer screen, homing in on the name that’s supposed to be connected to this telephone number. “Is this Beverly Combs?”
“Yeah,” she responds, and I can already hear the skepticism in her voice. “Who the hell is this?”
“Hi, Beverly,” I say, using my sweetest voice as my eyes move to the sheet of paper on my desk that contains the script my boss gave me. “I’m Hannah from Progress Mutual. Have you heard of us before?”
“No,” she replies, a heavy sigh leaving her throat with the word. “What do you do?”
