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“They have a witness.” She cups her phone, tells an agent I’ve not heard of before that she won’t be a minute, then focuses back on me. “She verifies that the un-plated motorcycle we suspect was in the back alleyway of Aeros definitely was and gave a vivid description of the alleged assailant to a sketch artist.” Ruffing papers sound down the line. “He looks a fuckton like you.”
As I scrub at my jaw, I cuss under my breath, then turn my back on Henley to hide my confession behind my bulky frame. “I swear on my wife’s grave, they walked away from our exchange breathing.”
“Knowing you as well as I do, they would have more scampered away,” Macy whispers with a sigh. “I don’t blame your response, Brodie, especially when you learn what gang they’re associated with, but I’ve presented as much evidence of your innocence as I can on your behalf. You need to come in to back me up or they’ll come knocking with handcuffs.”
A groove runs down the middle of my forehead as I ask, “They’re coming here?”
“No.” I breathe easy until she adds, “Not yet. I asked them to hold off until you deny my request for an official statement.” Her sigh whistles in my ear. “I can probably stall them until the morning, but I figured you’d rather come in while Lucy is sleeping.”
“I would,” I agree, even with my stomach still twisted up in knots. “I’ll be there in twenty. Ten if my bike will start.”
“Having issues since the crash?” Macy keeps talking before I can remove my foot from my mouth. “I’ll meet you at the west entrance.”
When she hangs up, I dial Thane. I trust Henley with Lucy wholeheartedly; she will take care of her no matter what, but a niggle in my gut won’t quit no matter how deeply I try to breathe it out.
“Hey, you’ve reached Thane. You know what to do. Except you, Christie. You still need practice.”
I once found his voicemail message funny.
Now it is frustrating.
“Thane, it’s me. I need to head out for an hour or two. Lucy is asleep, but I was wondering if you could keep Henley company while I’m gone. Maybe you could watch a movie or something?” Jealousy is solely responsible for my last sentence. Thane’s antics have died down a lot over the past week, but he’s quick to remind me I should consider myself lucky to smear the sheets with a woman as beautiful as Henley, and that plenty of men will happily take my place if I don’t start proving I’m worthy of her. “I’ll try the landline.”
Riggs answers after one ring. “Ashburn residence.”
“Riggs, It’s Brodie. Is Thane in?”
“He is, but requested not to be disturbed.”
The snideness of his comment tapers to silence when I say, “Tell him it’s urgent.”
Several long seconds later, a breathy response sounds down the line. “You want to have a good fucking excuse for interrupting me. Her mouth is like a hoover—”
“They’ve got a lead on the case I was telling you about the other night.” His silence speaks volumes, as well as Henley’s. I’ve never heard her so quiet. “I need to go in and assist with the investigation.”
I hear the groan of a disappointed woman before Thane’s promise. “I’ll be there in five.” When my breathy gripe adds to the female’s frustration, he says, “I’m not The Flash. I can’t move at the speed of light, but I promise I’ll run every stop sign like you have pull with the local PD.”
As the noise of his zipper sliding into place sounds down the line, I lower the phone from my ear and then collect my wallet and cell phone from the entryway. My wish to leave doubles when I spot a message from an unknown number. It shows the sketch Macy mentioned earlier. It is like looking in the mirror.
“I need to head out,” I announce to Henley like she hasn’t been eavesdropping on my conversation for the past couple of minutes. “I should be back no later than ten. Thane is—”
“Daddy…” When the patter of feet on the floorboards sounds through my ears, my eyes shoot in the direction of Lucy’s groggy voice. “Can I have a glass of water?”
“Go back to bed, honey,” Henley answers on my behalf. “I’ll bring you a glass in a minute.” She waits for Lucy’s shadow to move from the landing of the stairs before shifting on her feet to face me. “What’s going on? You’ve gone super serious.” She tugs on the hem of her shirt. “Is it me? Was that call about me?”
“No. It has nothing to do with you.” Lying is easy when it stops hurt. I wish I had remembered that six years ago. “I—”
“Can I have a cookie too, please?”
“Uh-huh,” Henley replies, less ruffled by Lucy’s second interruption than she is about my phone calls. She looks on the verge of hyperventilation, and my lie hasn’t slackened the groove running down the middle of her forehead.
