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Since it would take about an hour, Darby was going to have to walk around in a towel but at least he’d be clean.
And alive.
“Sit.” I told him once he returned.
He fell into the sofa, and I handed him the food I’d prepared while waiting.
“What the fuck?” I demanded.
Darby sighed, chewed and swallowed before placing his plate on the center table. He stretched one leg out in front of him and pointed to the Lay-Z-Boy across from him.
Though still pissed off at him, I sat.
“Do you remember Clive Harrisford?” He asked.
I nodded.
“He was murdered about a month ago.” Darby explained. “The cops says it was a suicide, but I know it wasn’t.”
“How do you know?” I asked. “We’re talking about people who are trained to differentiate between a homicide and a suicide.”
“Oh, come on, Taz. We both know these people are full of shit.” Darby frowned. “And we both know they aren’t losing any sleep over someone bumping off a journalist—especially one who’s been a major pain in their asses for about five years.”
“Darby…”
“There was no suicide note.” Darby pressed. “And Clive had just saved enough money for his trip to Bora Bora. He was talking to a real estate agent to get his own house—”
“You’re saying he had plans—major plans and wouldn’t have offed himself just as he was this close to them.”
Darby nodded. “Precisely. And the last time I saw him, he was excited. Clive wouldn’t have killed himself, Taz, trust me. So, I started digging. At first it was simple things—slashed tires, someone following me around, then right before they grabbed me, they broke into my place.”
“Did you call the cops?”
Darby rolled his eyes and picked up his food again. “I don’t trust them right now. If I found out something was wrong, their trained brains could have picked it up too. They aren’t even looking.”
“What have you found?”
“I can’t—you’re already not even supposed to be here.”
“Darby.” My voice held a warning. “Don’t make me kick your—”
My phone began ringing.
That shouldn’t have happened. No one had the number—hell, I didn’t even know the number.
Still, I checked the face to see it was a video call from Storm.
Against my better judgement, I answered it.
“P!” Storm greeted me, worry all over his handsome face. “Are you okay? Where are you?”
“How did you get this number?” I asked.
“Seriously?”
Storm then broke off into the Thai language. I wasn’t fully fluent, but I knew he was yelling at me. Anger filled his brown eyes.
“Whoa! Storm” I held up a hand. “Stop.”
