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“H-he wasn’t?” Laramie’s attention shoots to the glass wall. “He’s not dealing with the D.A. right now?”
“Nah.” I set my foam cup down and say nothing when Fentone picks it up. “I just wanted to know how committed you were to your fake alibi. I’d say this concludes our meeting.”
“I’m not going to prison,” he talks to my back when I turn toward the door. “You have no evidence. You have no witnesses. You have nothing to tie me to those girls but cheap candy their mothers probably bought them. But I,” he licks his lips when I stop by the door, my hand on the knob, and my eyes over my shoulder to watch him, “I have an alibi, I leave nothing behind when I work, and I have no fear of whatever bullshit tricks you think you have up your sleeve.” He slurps his spit again, and grins when my lips peel back in disgust.
“Bella asked for her mommy,” he snickers. “She cried, and cried, and cried…”
I open the door and move into the hall.
“And cried,” he calls out. “And cried. And cried.”
I pass Franklin in the hall and continue on my way. “He’s your guy, Detective. But you have no evidence to charge him with.”
“That’s what I’m saying.” He stops with a skid and turns back to watch me walk. “I know what I know, Doctor. But proving it is another thing.”
I nod and take out my phone as I skip down the steps at the front of the precinct. In the sunlight, I swipe my screen to unlock it and go to my recordings to make sure Fentone’s confession was saved.
He’s not wrong about two-party consent in our state. He’s not even wrong about the fact his confession won’t land his ass in prison.
But I wasn’t there for the judicial system. I wasn’t present today so I could find something to hand to a judge and hope to get Laramie slapped with a sentence long enough to allow Copeland’s little girls to grow up and stay safe. I was there for me.
And for my cop husband, who frowns upon killing a man without knowing for a fact he deserves it.
I never wanted to kill; not the first time, and not the next two after that. But I’ll do what needs to be done. Because the legal system sucks, and men like Laramie Fentone know how to stay out of prison by waxing their bodies and buying alibis.
Franklin hasn’t got the chops to get this conviction over the line.
But I do.
And I will.
Swiping to my call log and searching for my next point of contact, I select a different detective. Not Archer, nor Fletch, and definitely not Franklin or anyone else out of midtown.
“Detective Asa,” I exhale the moment the call connects. “Sophia.” Crossing the street and heading toward the garage where I left my work vehicle, I glance over my shoulder and make sure I’m alone. “I’m available now. What’s the plan?”
ARCHER
“Dad’s deteriorating.” Tim stops on the threshold of my bedroom door and waits while I tuck a silky button-up shirt into my pants.
We’re wearing suits tonight. Vests. Jackets. The whole fuckinglook. Because I guess we don’t exact revenge unless we look good doing it.
How very Malone of us.
“He’s about to drop off?” I cast a glance to the clock by my bed and note the time; it’s a little past six, and we’re supposed to be in Pastore’s living room by seven. Bringing my gaze back to Tim, I raise a brow. “He can’t wait a few hours?”
Smirking, he raps the doorframe with his knuckles and turns away. “He’s nothing if not the most annoying fucking prick on the planet. I’m gonna grab Cato, then I’m heading down to be there when he kicks it.”
“You feeling sentimental?” Leaving my coat on the foot of my bed, I grab the vest and follow him into the hall. “You gonna cry for the old man?”
“Fuck no. But I wanna see it happen. If we leave now, and he dies, and they move him while we’re gone, can we actually trust he’s dead?”
He stops by Cato’s door and knocks. “We have to go down and see dad,” he calls through the timber. “You’ve got five if you wanna make it in time.” Dropping his hand again, he tucks both into his pockets and heads down the stairs.
He wears a suit too, all except the coat, but that means I get to study the shoulder holster he wears, and the pair of guns on each side. His vest frames broad shoulders and a trim waist, and when he stops by our father’s bedroom door and turns back to face me, he watches me with eyes that burn with emotions spanning from anger to confusion. Despair too, maybe. At least a little.
“You don’t have to come in if you don’t want. I’ll let you know when it happens.”
I scoff and push the door open to reveal Felix already sitting by our father’s left side, and on his right, the nurse who keeps close.
