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Pettiness isn’t in her nature. If she’s withholding information, it’s because she thinks she’s doing it for my own good. That doesn’t mean I like it any better.
“I’ve been searching the spirit world,” she finally tells me when we reach our bedroom. “I didn’t want you to worry. I haven’t done anything dangerous, but I’m trying to find the poltergeist.”
I let out a long breath because I am worried about her. I don’t like her putting herself in danger to help us. I almost lost her once, and I don’t want to come close to that again. But I trust her, and I don’t want her to feel like I don’t.
“Have you had any luck?” I ask, genuinely curious.
She sighs and shakes her head, throwing herself onto our bed and groaning into the mattress.
“No,” she says, sitting up to look at me. “Hex told me the ghosts have been hiding, but I didn’t think they could hide there too. They’re crafty.”
“And the poltergeist?” I ask her.
She simply shakes her head and lets out a labored breath. “When I found your brother, I had a connection with him. I don’t even know who the poltergeist is. How can I possibly find him?”
I sit next to her and pull her to me, relishing in her warmth. One side effect of Tory’s autism is her hyper-fixation. When she sets her mind to something, she can’t let it go. Unless she can find something else to focus on, she’ll never let this go.
“Please promise me you won’t go too far,” I plead. “I need you, baby. Don’t do anything that will endanger your life.”
She looks up at me with sincerity and kisses my cheek.
“You know I can’t guarantee that any more than you can.”
CHAPTERTWELVE
Someone bangs on my door, pulling me out of a great dream. The beast inside me screams to be let out and murder whoever it is, but that’s just my tiredness speaking. I roll out of bed and stumble to the door, not bothering to turn on the light.
A police pig stands at my door, shining a bright light in my face. The fuck? Who let him in?
“Mr. Pocus, we need you to come downstairs right now for questioning.”
I’ve literally been asleep all night. What could they possibly think I’ve done? With the pigs, it doesn’t matter. If anything is remotely amiss in town, the hammer comes down on one of the gangs. They probably roll a pair of dice to decide which one they’ll investigate.
I walk down the stairs in nothing but my boxers and find my men in a similar state. There are half a dozen cops in the room, with more milling around the house, and dozens of lights shine outside the window.
I see the officer from the nightclub watching me with a gleeful expression. He thinks he’s caught me somehow, but I have no idea what this is about. I’m completely in the dark, and I can tell that the guys are too. No one knows exactly what to do.
“We finally got you, you spooky piece of shit,” the officer hisses at me as I sit down on the couch.
An older man takes charge of the situation, telling us they’re going to take us each into a room to interrogate us. He gives no indication about what we’re being interrogated about, but I assume this is a method of dividing and conquering. If we don’t have time to corroborate our stories, they can catch us in a lie.
The problem they don’t seem to realize is there is no story to corroborate. We’re all equally in the dark about why we’re here. I’m furious that these pigs have infiltrated our home.
Each officer escorts one of my men out until it’s just me and the man from the club. He sits in a chair opposite me, and questions me about my whereabouts this evening. I tell him the truth. I’ve been home all day, and multiple people can testify to that.
“What about your men?” he growls. “Where did you send them out tonight?”
They’ve all had various assignments over the last few days, but no one’s had anything very specific. Our method since the attack has been to stay vigilant and acquire as much information as possible. As far as I know, they’ve been riding around the city, keeping their eyes peeled.
“So, you didn’t command one of your men to blow up the Cuatro Locos hideout?” he asks, a sneer on his face.
I hope he sees my shock as genuine because it is.
“Was anyone hurt?” I ask, thinking of our home. This is exactly why I sent my wife away.
“Half the men are dead. The other half are in the ICU,” he tells me, but I don’t miss the glint in his eye. As much as he wants to nail me to the wall for a crime I haven’t committed, he’s happy to see a notorious gang taken down.
“Why would you assume my men had anything to do with it? We were attacked recently, too.”
