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I went through the back room, mentally bracing myself for the damage up front. I still had some paint left over from the reno; I could spend the day cleaning up the glass, then repaint tomorrow. One step at a time…
My thoughts fell apart as I stepped into the main room. The glass was gone, as were all the smashed displays. A tarp was laid on the floor with a ladder and several buckets of paint. The room smelled of acrylic, and all the black streaks were gone. Ronan had repainted every wall, except one that was still in progress. The horrific damage from opening night was muting into a bad memory.
My hand went to my heart, and tears flooded my eyes and spilled over. I couldn’t stop them anymore and wasn’t sure I wanted to.
“Oh, baby…” I breathed. “Thank you.”
I retrieved my phone and called him again. It went to Ronan’s curt voicemail: Leave a message.
I hung up and texted, the good feeling in my stomach fading and turning into worry.
“He’s fine,” I muttered to the empty shop.
Because he has to be.
I set up the ladder and finished the wall Ronan had started. I was nearly done when a rapping came at the front door. I peered through glass and metal mesh gates to see a tall man in a suit. He waved what looked like a badge at me.
I climbed down on shaking limbs and unlocked the door for him.
&n
bsp; “Yes?”
“Shiloh Barrera? I’m Detective Harris. I’m a friend of your grandmother’s.”
“Yes, hi.” I stepped aside to let him in and shut the door behind him. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been assigned to your case and need to ask you some questions.”
“I have a case?” I asked, my heart thudding loudly in my chest. “The other night, the officers made it sound as if there wasn’t much they could do.”
“Circumstances have changed in the past twenty-four hours,” he said. He wore an unreadable expression. A detective’s poker face. “There’s been an arrest.”
A sigh gusted out of me. “Oh, thank God. Frankie Dowd—”
“Is in the hospital in critical condition. Ronan Wentz was brought in for questioning and has been arrested.”
The floor dropped out beneath me, and I sagged against the door. “For what?”
“Attempted murder.”
Chapter Thirty-One
“I think you’re going to prison for a very long time.”
Detective Harris backed off, and Detective Kowalski got up from behind the desk in that claustrophobic holding room that grew smaller and smaller with every passing second. He pulled a set of handcuffs from his belt.
“Ronan Wentz, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”
They read me my rights and took me to processing where I was booked, fingerprinted, and had my mug shot taken along with photos of my bruised and swollen knuckles. A bus was waiting to transport me to the county jail, where I was strip-searched, given an orange jumpsuit, and tossed in a cell with a scared-looking skinny guy. He flinched when I looked his way.
I lay on the bottom bunk, staring at the mesh wiring and torn mattress of the bunk above me, one thought running through my mind.
I’m not like him. I have to trust Shiloh. I’m not like him.
But I was fucking behind bars. After going through the humiliating process to get here, those words were flimsy and weak.
I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry…
