“Detective Briony St. James has an exceptional record,”continued the anchor,“and some are now questioning whether it’s a littletooexceptional—and whether her empath brother could have anything do with that.”
“Shit, I’d buyherdrinks.”
Ben’s voice was distant over the high-pitched ringing that had started in Reece’s ears. The camera panned over to a smarmy white man with a crisp suit and vaguely familiar face.
“American Minds Intact president Beau Macy has once again consented to join us and share his speculation about Davies’ influence on the SPD.”The anchor shifted his serious expression to Macy.“Where was such shocking footage of that empath captured?”
“It’s AMI’s footage, of course, but let’s focus on what it shows,”Macy said, without any credit to his daughter or her blog.“It shows danger. It’s obvious Detective St. James is under the influence of her empath brother. AMI has repeatedly called for this detective’s suspension from the force—”
The barstool toppled to the ground. Reece was walking, propelled by the anger licking at the base of his skull. How dare they drag Jamey into this—how dare they tie her name to this bullshit—how dare—
Grayson’s flat voice managed to pierce the fog of Reece’s fury. “Where’re you heading?”
“To deal with the news,” Reece snarled over his shoulder. Then he paused.
He was already halfway down the stairs to the front door of McFeely’s.
Reece turned his head back toward the front door in confusion. Wherewashe going? He didn’t know what station they’d just been watching. He didn’t know where any of the news stations were.
He didn’t even remember starting down the steps.
He looked up at Grayson, who was leaning against the railing at the top of the stairs, calm as ever.
“I...” Reece shook his head, as if he could shake his own thoughts straight again. Why were his ears still ringing? “I think...”
Beau Macy’s voice echoed again in his head.
Repeatedly called for this detective’s suspension—
No, not in a million years. Reece turned around.
“We got files to wait for,” Grayson called.
Reece was already on his way down the stairs. “Screw the files.”
“I need them.”
Reece didn’t slow. “Then you stay and wait.”
“And watch you run off on a day when no empath ought to be alone—”
“They’re trashingJamey!” Reece shoved open the front door.
“Mr. Davies.”
At the sound of his formal name, Reece stilled, hands on the open door. He clenched his jaw, then turned again to look over his shoulder, up to the top of the stairs.
Grayson held up the phone. “I make one call,” he said, in that lazy drawl, “and I can have the press leashed.”
Reece didn’t move.
“We could quibble about the First Amendment and the press later.” Grayson came down one step. “I can make Detective St. James untouchable now.”
The offer hung between them, a heady temptation—or, maybe, a test.
But a test of what?
Reece closed his eyes. There was nothing to hear for a moment but the rushing of cars outside and the distant thumping of Ben’s music.
