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Prologue
“Isaw Dennis Stratton kill Joyce Hayes.”
A shiver went through Fred as those words flowed around in his head while he pulled into his driveway. He parked his Toyota Corolla on the side of his house under the carport next to his brother’s sports car.
On the ride home, all he could think was—had he done the right thing?
Had he done the right thing in talking to the assistant district attorney and the DA office’s investigator?
Sure, confessing cleared his conscience, and hopefully, he’d get a good night’s sleep for the first time in two weeks. But he wasn’t sure adding to his initial statement had been a good idea.
They had asked him why he hadn’t been more forthcoming when the detectives on the case questioned him weeks ago. All he could tell them was that he’d been afraid of how it would look if they’d known that not only had he been in the office that night, but he saw and heard everything leading up to the murder.
I hope I did the right thing.
Questions bombarded his mind as he stared out into the darkness of his backyard.
What if I should’ve kept my mouth shut? What if the ADA somehow starts thinking that I’m the murderer? What if she tries to pin everything on me instead of the actual murderer—the CEO of Leverage Construction company?
His life would be ruined. Even if he was just a custodial worker, he had built up a pretty good life for himself. What if….
Someone knocked on the car window, and Fred jumped in his seat, hitting his knee on the bottom of the steering wheel. Pain shot through his leg. His heart leaped into his throat. Breathing hard, he jerked his head to the left and saw the person standing outside the driver’s side window.
Christ.
He released the breath that had gotten stuck in his chest and dropped back against the cloth seat.
Omar.
His brother had scared the crap out of him. Fred hadn’t heard or seen him approach. He shut off the car and pushed open the door.
“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” he asked, willing his heart rate to return to normal.
Omar, standing over six feet tall with broad shoulders and dressed in all black, looked intimidating as hell. He stepped back as Fred climbed out of the vehicle.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. I heard you pull up, and when you didn’t come into the house, I figured I’d check on you.”
Omar was three years younger and a few inches taller and broader. His skin was a shade lighter than Fred’s mocha tone, but they had the same dark eyes and full lips. Still, most people who saw them together didn’t know right away that they were brothers.
“You all right?” Omar asked as he led the way into their house.
The three-bedroom bungalow was located on the east side of Atlanta in a neighborhood that was slowly being gentrified. A few years ago, they’d purchased the fixer-upper with the intent to renovate and flip it. Instead, they decided to live there while they worked on another property.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just…just….” He shook his head and released a pent-up sigh. His heart rate had slowly gone back to normal, but Fred was still on edge.
Placing his keys on the kitchen counter, he moved past his brother and headed to the living room, where they had a partially stocked minibar to the right of the wall-mounted big-screen television. Nothing like some Jameson to calm his nerves. He poured himself three fingers of whiskey and turned to his brother, who had followed him into the room.
He held up the bottle. “Want some?”
Omar leaned on the back of the navy-blue leather recliner. “Nah, I’m good.”
Fred took a large swig and closed his eyes, grimacing at the burn sliding down the back of his throat.
“Man, that’s strong,” he said, shaking his head.
Omar laughed. “Yeah, that stuff is not for the weak at heart. You probably should stick to your usual—light beer.”
Fred chuckled and added a little more to his glass before carrying the tumbler to the leather sectional.
