Page 81 of My Cruel Salvation

I lean against him, shaking my head as I do. “No. She’s right that you’ll know soon enough. Let’s just say that I’m really, really proud of my best friend.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

When the news finally broke around three in the afternoon, and Brandy’s interview went live, Devlin had been working at the computer. All of a sudden, he couldn’t get anything done because of the notifications that kept flashing across his screen.

At first he just dismissed them, but then he read them. Soon he tracked down the actual video and watched it. He was sucked in, pleased by the support for both him and Brandy, and as proud as any man could be of the way she handled the situation.

He’d been working in Ellie’s bedroom, but he left and found Brandy in the den she’d converted into a studio for her handbag business. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.” She grinned at him, looking both proud of herself and mischievous.

“I’m glad you did, though. I once told you not to do it until you were sure, and I could tell in that interview that you were. What you said …. it means a lot. And I think it’ll matter.”

“I hope so. That’s why I did it.”

He smiled. “I’ve already gotten a lot of support from people who say they’re on my side. So thank you.”

She came to him, and he gave her a hug.

“I’m really glad you’re in my life again,” she said. “Mostly I’m glad you’re back in Ellie’s. You two are so good together.”

“I’m not going to argue with you about that.” He nodded toward the sewing machine. “I’ll leave you to that. You need anything? Water? Tea?”

“I’m good. But thanks.”

He gave her a thumbs-up, then went to make a coffee for himself. He hoped Lamar would swing by, as he’d like to know if her video had resulted in any calls to the station, but the detective hadn’t checked in with Ellie today, and Devlin could only assume he was deep in the midst of the bombing investigation.

It was barely past lunch, but it already felt as if Brandy’s video had capped off a long, hard day. He took his coffee and headed to the back porch, assuming he’d find Ellie writing.

Instead, she was asleep on the lounge chair.

He wasn’t surprised. They’d been through the wringer, after all.

Now, Devlin felt ragged and spent, and was tempted to join her in a nap. His day so far had been full of computer screens and video conferences with various members of Saint’s Angels going over theories and suspects. He’d delegated tasks to everyone, and they’d been reporting in throughout the morning with tiny details, none of which seemed to lead them any closer to finding the bomber. It was probably related to Blackstone—probably retribution for taking the sonofabitch out—but they had no way of knowing for sure.

The one thing that they had going for them was that the box that the team had taken from Blackstone’s house—and that Tamra had given him after the walk on the beach—hadn’t been in his hands when he had gone to the front door. If it had, it would have burned, as he would have undoubtedly set it by the door when he’d walked back to talk to Ellie. They would have lost all that intel.

Instead, it had been in Shelby’s trunk, and he’d spent much of the day poring over the information, hoping for some clue to pop out at him. Instead, the only things that pinged were a few familiar names from his years on the compound. Boys he’d played with who’d grown into men who followed his father’s code.

He’d recognized at least a dozen names, and a dozen more that seemed familiar. Men like Franklin Dewitt whose father had handled The Wolf’s books for years. Romeo Duarte, who’d been so tight with Joseph. Manuel Espinoza, Aurelia’s little brother. Carlos Garcia, who’d been a huge bully as a kid, then grown into an even bigger one. He’d worked security for The Wolf at sixteen, the youngest to ever do that, but the kid had mad skills and the kind of chip on his shoulder that The Wolf considered loyalty. On and on the list went, so many names. So many memories. So many goddamn possibilities.

And no way to know if any of them had arranged the bomb. No way to even know if he was barking up the right tree. Not until they tracked one of the men down and brought them in for interrogation.

One of them knew something—they had to.

And if they didn’t? Well, then Devlin and the team went back to square one. Until then, he was staying optimistic.

Since Blackstone’s base was in Chicago, Penn and Claire were at the frontline of the operation. So far, though, they hadn’t reported in with any good news, and Devlin feared this would be a long operation rather than the quick jump to a resolution that he’d hoped.

In addition to coordinating with the team, he’d been dealing with calls from the insurance company about the fire, from the press about the explosion and the revelation about his father, and more calls from foundation backers either offering support or seeking further reassurance even after his press conference. Not to mention calls about Brandy’s story and Devlin’s supposed heroism in taking Walt down a peg.

Tamra, thank goodness, was handling everything at the foundation, but Devlin knew he needed to be there. One more day, and then he would go in. He needed to make sure everything was safe here first. Lamar had arranged for the police to watch the house, but he wanted more of his own team here, and he’d recalled several from stagnant operations to come to Laguna Cortez until things calmed down.

Of course, the thing he wanted most of all was to simply curl up next to El and sleep. As a rule, he wasn’t one for escaping reality, but right then he was bone tired, and he knew he wasn’t thinking clearly. There’d been too much thrown at him all at once. Too much shit to go through, too many questions that remained to be answered.

Hell, maybe he needed a nap. Maybe that would clear his head. Maybe—

The sharp ring of his phone pulled him out of his thoughts. It was Lamar, and Devlin answered the call with a quick, “Hang on.”