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“Thanks. I don’t care about the rest of it.” My gaze sweeps over the contents of the living room. “It’s just stuff. Easily replaced.”
“Unlike the photos. I know. It’s never easy losing someone you love. Especially to PTSD.”
Garrett starts pacing, like he tends to do when figuring out a plot point for whatever thriller he’s working on. “At least you’re out on bail. Thank Christ for Blake.”
“For now, anyway. Who knows how long my freedom will last if we don’t figure out how the hell the drugs got onto my property? And who framed me and why.”
“I wish my connections with the FBI could help with the investigation,” Garrett says. “But the local police have to invite the FBI into their jurisdiction before the agents can be involved.”
Too bad Garrett’s status as a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author isn’t enough of an invite for the FBI. I seriously doubt Chief Wilson will be extending one himself.
The doorbell rings.
“Speaking of Blake.” I take a step toward the hallway.
“I’ll get it,” Garrett says since he’s closer to the door.
Blake and Garrett enter the living room. Blake, my lawyer and friend from our college days, is wearing a gray suit, a contrast to the jeans and T-shirts the four of us have on.
With the exception of Garrett, who’s back to pacing, we sit. Kellan and I take the couch, Troy and Blake the armchairs.
“We’re trying to figure out who the hell would want to frame Lucas,” Troy tells Blake.
Blake pulls out a notepad and pen from his briefcase. “Is there any chance it was just someone who needed a safe place to stash their drugs and ended up in your house, Lucas?”
“Possibly. But I don’t think it was that. Someone went to a lot of trouble to not only hide drugs here but to make sure I got caught with them.”
“You’re right. But for the sake of covering our bases, we should consider all possible scenarios. Any thoughts on who might want to see you behind bars?”
Garrett sits on the other end of the sectional. “So far we’ve got a therapist at the Veterans Center who doesn’t see eye to eye with Lucas.”
I fill in the blanks for Blake. “He means Richard Diegel. He wants to redirect funding from the PT department, as well as other departments, for his work with his PTSD clients.” Which I know firsthand is important. “But I can’t see him planting drugs in my house just to get the money. Not at the risk of his reputation.”
“I’ve heard you two have butted heads on more than a few occasions,” Kellan says.
I frown. “Just how common knowledge is that?”
He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “I hear and see things. Chalk it up to being an ex-con.”
“Yes, the PT department is less likely to get funding without me pushing for it, but someone else might be hired who will push equally hard to make sure it happens.”
“Is there anyone else at the center who might hold a grudge against you?” Troy asks.
Garrett snorts. “Golden boy here? He’s always trying to help people. Why would anyone have a grudge against him?”
“But not everyone appreciates that, do they?” Kellan’s keen gaze is directed at me.
“Christ, are you a goddamn fly on the wall at the center?” He’s not even the one who volunteers there. That would be Troy.
“Something like that.”
“I’ll admit that I’ve gotten into a few minor disagreements with some of the staff ’cause they don’t care about the war vets or appreciate what they’ve been through.”
“Just how many people are we talking about?” Garrett asks.
“I don’t know. Maybe three.” I jump to my feet and pace. I already dealt with the interrogations this morning at the station. I’m not in the mood for more.
“Great, so you possibly have four people there who wouldn’t shed a tear if you left? Is that what you’re saying?”
