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“Listen, Cohen.” He steps forward, again, inches from my nose. “You little piece of shit, I could get you—”
Just then, a figure appears next to us, a familiar face from the construction crew. Juan Cortez, an illegal immigrant who works his ass off and gets paid in cash, just like I do.
“Is there something I can help with?” Juan asks in broken English.
Stroud scans him like a gnat on the bottom of his shoe.
“No,” I say, “the detective was just leaving.”
Stroud weighs his options. Juan and I are a combined four-fifty, easily, and coupling that with the fact that his visit has now drawn attention by not only the crew, but the bystanders as well, he decides to keep his professional reputation intact.
It’s all about reputation, after all.
“I’m watching you, Cohen.” He points his finger at my chest. “If I were you, I would do everything I could to find Sylvia Stone. Because the second the town hears she’s gone missing, you are going to become the number one suspect. You killed her mother and now killed her. Revenge for her testimony against you. Maybe roughed her up a little first and—”
I lunge forward.
Chaos erupts around me, distorted shouts and pounding footsteps as Juan yanks me off my feet and drags me down to the dirt, restraining me like a rabid dog.
It takes four men to hold me down.
Detective Stroud looms over me, a crooked, taunting grin on his face. “Welcome back, Cohen.”
I jerk out of Juan’s hold, surge upward, and watch as the detective saunters back to his truck.
The crowd disperses, disappointed at the lack of physicality.
“You gotta get your shit together,” Juan says, low and threatening.
I growl, jab my fingers through my sweaty hair.
“I know who you are,” he continues, “and I don’t give a shit. You’ve paid your time in prison. More than most of us have ever and will ever see. You need to focus on not going back.”
I begin pacing.
“Listen,” he continues, “I’ve got an old truck I ain’t using. Might break down, won’t get you very far, but you can use it until you figure something out.”
I stop, gape at him, speechless. The man knows nothing about me, other than my reputation for stabbing an elderly woman to death.
“You’ll have to pay for gas,” he continues, “Ain’t got money for that, but you can have the truck as long as you need it. Better than sleeping in the dirt.”
I extend my hand.
He dips his chin.
We shake.
I am dumbfounded by this man’s kindness and as much as I despise handouts, I accept his. Because Detective Stroud is right. If I want to ensure my freedom, I need to do everything I can to find Sylvia Stone before they find a reason to arrest me.
27
Rhett
Iput in a full day, working nonstop to counterbalance the thoughts racing through my head.
The seriousness of the news hit me quickly.
There is no question everyone will think I am involved in Sylvia’s disappearance. Stroud was right, and he’d already worked an angle—revenge.
