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“I know what ‘beat your albino ass’ means,” Grant mutters.
“Hey.” Henri Fontenot’s lazy Cajun drawl cuts in. He glances between us, pushing the not-regulation mess of his long brown hair out of his eyes as he gives us one of the broody looks that doe-eyed Louisiana boy’s known for. “Not one of us is givin’ Lucas a chance to get a word in edgewise.”
“See? You know you guys suck when the new guy has to play the peacemaker,” I point out, dropping the stack of newspaper clippings I’ve been holding on top of the ever-growing pile in the folder. “Look, guys, call it a hunch. There’s more to this than an overdose. I want to be able to tell her family the truth—the real truth—and if there’s justice to be had, I want it settled before they have to deal with something so painful.”
“What you mean,” Grant growls, “is you don’t want her family publicizing this and fucking up your solo investigation.”
“You know me too well.” I lean back in the chair till it creaks and Grant gives me a dirty look.
I spread my hands innocently.
Hell, if anyone broke the springs on this thing, it’s him. His desk, after all, and he’s a human moose when I’m just big.
“Look,” I continue. “If there was foul play involved, right now, the person who did it—whether it was an accident or intentional, planned or a crime of passion—is probably feeling pretty damn smug. Thinking he got away with it. So they’re gonna get careless. But if the family makes it known it was a murder, especially if the murderer’s keeping tabs, they’ll work even harder to cover their tracks. Go to ground. Then we’ll never find them.”
There’s a long silence.
I give my boys time to think.
I’ve been working with Grant for a good long while now, and Micah for a few solid years. Henri’s the new guy, just hired on under a year ago, but he’s a decent type and he blends in well.
We’re all long thinkers and slow talkers. Maybe a hazard of being cops.
But after a while, Grant nods, scruffing his beard a bit.
“I’ll give you a week, maybe two tops. Any longer than that and the trail’s cold anyway. At that point, it’s just cruel to the family.”
I let out the breath I’ve been holding in.
I figured it’d go my way, especially since Grant, of all the people here, knows what happened with my sister, and what I suspect.
I’m not the only one who’s lost someone to mystery disappearances when his best friend Ethan has been missing forever.
Ethan Sanderson disappeared the same night Celeste did. Rumor is they ran off together, or he killed her and fled town, but I don’t believe it—and neither does Grant, even if he won’t admit it.
He’s always had questions, suspicions, shit we don’t talk about but we both know in our bones. That’s why he’s usually softer on me than anyone else when I start talking crazy.
And this could’ve been the one time he went against me.
He does give me the stink eye, though, his blue eyes stern. He’s only like a year or two older than me, but he acts like my damn father.
“Just don’t go starting any shit you can’t finish, Graves,” he rumbles.
I know what that means.
Don’t go fucking with the Arrendells unless you’ve got hard proof.
Good advice. I may or may not have had Lucia Arrendell demanding my head on a silver platter once, during my first rookie year when I got a little overzealous trying to go after Montero.
Since then, I’ve learned to be careful.
That doesn’t mean I’ve let it go.
Just that I’ve learned to play the long game.
I smirk as I snap off a salute. “I will finish all my shits, Captain. Rest assured.”
“You and that fuckin’ mouth,” Grant groans.
“Got one just like everybody else here, Cap.”
“...you trying to get fired today?” He shakes his head slowly, then glances toward the chief’s closed office door. Not that Bowden’s likely in there; who the hell knows where he takes off to these days. Gone with a pile of nail clippings left on his desk sometimes. Grant glances back at us. “What about the new teacher? We sure we’re all okay letting her move back into a possible murder scene?”
“Nothing there,” Micah says. “Henri and I gave it a triple-check, and Lucas looked again. The only evidence was that girl’s body, plus a little crushed grass that could’ve been from Miss Clarendon herself. No point in taping it off forever. We took our photos and it’s too late now anyway. She’s already in.”
“The house isn’t the problem,” I grumble.
“Yeah?” Henri looks up with a cutting glance. “So you’re saying the teacher is. Miss Clarendon, was it?” He whistles. “Girl’s got some legs on her, mon ami.”
I glower at him. “The fuck you doing, looking at her legs, Frenchie?”
