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“That’s not it.”
“You push everyone away before they have the possibility of getting close to you,” he said. “Thus the string of one-night stands. But if this girl made you feel something before you had the chance to squash it? You should embrace it.”
I shook my head. “I want to stay focused on finding Dad’s killer.”
Grayson’s nostrils flared, and a sharp exhale escaped him, his jaw clenched in visible frustration.
“You ever stop to wonder why you work so hard to find Dad’s killer?”
“To bring him to justice.”
“Is that why?” Grayson asked. “Or is it a way of not accepting Dad’s death?”
A heavy silence settled between us, the weight of Grayson’s words sinking deep. My throat tightened, making any response impossible.
Grayson sighed. Set his drink down.
“Hunter, if you keep living in the past, it’ll prevent you from having a future.”
“You’re one to talk.” Grayson was as tortured and screwed in the head as I was. Look at all the fistfights he’d gotten into as a kid and now his vanishing acts.
“I have to go. I’m late for a meeting.”
Maybe once I knew Luna was safe, I’d be able to focus.
“Barry, I’m sorry I’m late.”
Barry’s salt-and-pepper hair and matching beard reflected the early evening light that draped through the oversized window opposite my desk. When he rose to shake my hand, I had to look down at his stocky frame, clad in a dove-gray button-down, fitted black trousers.
His black leather jacket was an interesting touch—unorthodox, compared to the other investigators I’d worked with. Those ones always wore slacks and a tie.
“I appreciate you meeting with me. I’m excited for you to work on my father’s case. Please. Sit.”
I took a seat in the leather chair behind my mahogany desk. A surge of anticipation raced through me, seeing Barry Mansfield in the flesh, right in my office. He had solved more cases than any cold-case detective had in their entire career. The guy had a knack for uncovering facts, finding the right people to talk to, and actuallypersuadingthem to divulge pertinent information. Plus, he performed gymnastics with his analytical mind.
None of it was a sure thing, but it was hard to contain my thrill that I might finally get the answers that had eluded me my whole life.
“What did you find out about Franco Hopkins?” I asked.
With meticulous care, Barry placed his phone at a precise angle on my desk. He pressed the green recording button, and he gave it a once-over, ensuring the microphone was positioned equally between us.
“If it’s all right, Mr. Lockwood, I’d like to get our prelim meeting about your father’s case done first in case we run out of time. The next few days, I have meetings set up with police to go over the case, and I need to be prepared for them.”
We wouldn’t run out of time. But I held back my frustration because the stakes were too high to risk him getting pissed and walking away.
He was my last hope of ever finding the culprit who had killed my father. And why.
“What do you want to know?”
“I’d like you to recount everything that you remember from that night,” Barry said.
“Have you had a chance to review the case files of all the other private investigators?” I asked, tapping my fingers lightly on the table and forcing a neutral expression, though my eyes darted quickly to the clock.
“I prefer to start with a fresh slate. It’s been my experience that unconscious biases can weave their way into case files. Other private investigators’ theories, for example. Once that happens, you’re no longer looking at it with a fresh, completely unbiased set of eyes.”
I rubbed my brow bone. “My father was home, working in his office.”
“This one?”
