Page 10 of Overkill

“Thank you, but I’ll be fine,” I said through the lump in my throat. “Now?”

“You can take a few minutes. Maybe even days. Not like he’ll get any deader—” Her eyes widened in surprise, then she flushed. “Shit, sorry, Mel. I didn’t mean that.”

I smiled, because it was a little funny. He definitely wouldn’t be any deader than he already was. “Tomorrow, then. Marcus and Miriam have a half day today. I’ve got to pick them up in less than four hours. I don’t think…I want to make sure they’re not stuck. You know? In case the busses aren’t running…”

I’d have to get on my phone and check the app.

“Do I have to come to the station now? Or…tomorrow?”

I’d thought about this for a long time and assumed there would be the inside of a jail cell waiting for me. If not now, then soon. After they figured it out. Because the forensic shows I’d started watching obsessively after the high of slaying my own personal demon turned to the dread of discovery—the paranoia of the ticking bomb that was the truth—always showed the murderers getting caught right when they thought they were safe.

So I never felt safe. Partially as a precaution, and also because it was true. I was one clue away from being the maid in the ballroom with the whiskey full of muscle relaxers.

And Miriam and Marcus were one detective’s clue away from foster care. Unless the Grays took them in. But in the end, was that any better?

I looked at Whitlaw. She was young. She looked as young as I did, really. And she had a thirteen-year-old of her own. The big open secret was that the Gray men liked them young.

I made myself believe it had nothing to do with me, even as his hand touched my thigh in the car a little too long, and a little too high. He was just affectionate. Right? He was just a nice guy. Right?

“Sweetheart, I’m not taking you into custody.” She squeezed my hand. It was meant as a comforting gesture. It wasn’t. “I’m here to support you through this tragedy.”

I looked up at her and her deeply tanned skin that was uneven because of the hats she always wore. She saw too much. I only hoped and prayed she didn’t see through me.

“I know how the Grays can be.”

We both knew well. Too well.

The Grays of Mourningkill. There was a right and wrong side of the mountain to be from, and my mom was considered wrong from the very beginning. Not good enough to be one of them. Just a gold digger. An ambitious social climber.

I remembered Grandma Gray looking my mom up and down as she sneered, “She works.”

Whether you were a prostitute or a CEO, jobs that didn’t have to do with horses weren’t good enough for Lady Gray. Good ol’ traditional small-town values…

“You know you can always call me. Anytime.” Sheriff Whitlaw smiled. She might look my age, but she was decades more mature than I was. She had to be. “I know what it’s like to have to grow up a little too fast, and to take care of someone else when you’re hardly more than a kid yourself.”

“I’m fine. And I’m not a kid.” I jutted out my chin, prickling at the idea I was somehow too young, too naive to be taking care of Marcus and Miriam. I grew up fast because I had to. Because I would have been dead if I hadn’t. Because I’d had to live in terror, humiliation, and fear for so long.

“I’m not saying you are, sweetheart. But this is a lot to deal with.”

She wasn’t much older than I was. She was dealing with it just fine. She was dealing with it so well, I wished I could talk to her about it. But I couldn’t. That would break the rules of this fucking town.

I tried to give my most Oscar-winning performance, but it fell short. All I could do was politely croak, “Thank you.”

Chapter 3

Nothing but Foreskins

Vedder

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Noam Braun was a man in his fifties. Military paraphernalia, such as coins from over a hundred units, pictures, and military certificates, crowded his desk and dripped from his bookcase. He had a National Guard green beret, and he seemed to have made it his entire personality in his retirement years.

“Taz said you were looking for help. I have a lot of free time on my hands.” I took a seat across his gray, metal desk. The chair groaned under my weight, and one of the wheels squeaked when I moved forward to put my elbow on the table.

“Taz, huh?” Braun, the local bail bondsman and resident private investigator, tilted his head, looking me up and down. “You a long tabber?”

Special Forces. He meant Special Forces. If I hadn’t known he was a National Guardsman in the 20th Special Forces Group, I would have figured it out from the numerous plaques littered across the bare drywall. Unpainted, smoke-stained, and dingy, this place was likely a front for something.

Especially when you factored in the state-of-the-art cameras, biometric safes, and advanced security systems. Well-hidden, but still noticeable if you knew where to look.