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“Yes.”
“He’s really dead?”
“He’s really dead,” Zack confirmed. “You’re safe.”
I leaned into Zack, and he wrapped his arms around me. “Thank you,” I whispered to him.
“No, I’m the one who should be thanking you,” Zack replied.
So many different things were flashing through my mind that it didn’t really register, and it was only later that I wondered what he was thanking me for.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Zack
“Morning, Sheriff,” I greeted, as he passed by me ready to climb the steps to the station.
He turned around in surprise and caught sight of me next to my Harley. I walked over to him, and he gave me a curt nod that was not unfriendly.
“I heard you took Godwin in for questioning yesterday.”
The sheriff looked resigned to the fact that I probably knew more than I should have. “We did,” he nodded. “But he’s not in our custody anymore.”
“He’s dying,” I said, unsure why I volunteered the information. Was it possible that after years of hate, I had actually developed the capacity to feel sympathy for a man I had considered my enemy?
“I’m aware,” the sheriff replied. “Which is one of the main reasons he’s walking around today. There’s no point in convicting a dead man. He’s got a mark on his back as it is.”
“Did you have enough to convict him in the first place?”
“His boys were all eager to flap their gums once they knew that we had them in our sights,” the sheriff continued. “The Lucifer’s Knights were involved in money laundering, drug trafficking, and arms dealing.”
“Ah,” I said, even though none of this was news to me.
“The thing is… Godwin seemed to have lost interest in all his ventures once he received his diagnosis. He had stopped conducting business, and he had lost half of his clients as well as some of his men.”
“He lost them to Ghost,” I pointed out.
“Because as usual, the mindless need someone they perceive to be strong to follow.”
“Not all who follow are mindless,” I interjected, thinking of my own men.
The sheriff understood what I meant by that, and he smiled. “His real name was Hiram Stanley.”
“Whose?”
“The man you call Ghost,” The sheriff replied. “He was born Hiram Stanley. Ghost was just a nickname he concocted to inspire fear.”
“And Walter Black?”
“A stolen identity,” the sheriff replied. “Turns out he was a seventy-year-old man from Louisiana who died three years ago. Turns out that Hiram Stanley was wanted in three different states.”
I nodded. “Makes sense. And Mila?”
“Her story was consistent with what we found at the crime scene,” the sheriff told me. “She killed him in self-defense… so she’s free and clear. I would recommend that she see a therapist though. She might suffer from post-traumatic stress for a while. When I spoke to her, she seemed a little fragile.”
“She’s not,” I said immediately. “She’s stronger than she looks.”
“I have no doubt,” the sheriff responded. “But even the strongest of us have weaknesses sometimes. You need to take care of her.”
