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He holds his arm out, then lets them fall against his scrubs. “What is there to do?”
“There's gotta be something. Especially if the guy found out you know. Cross, that's terrifying.”
“My dad's a terrifying guy.”
I don't plan to tell him, especially after what happened a few minutes ago with that monitor when he got freaked out, but his face is so defeated, I can't help myself. Cross is in danger and I have to tell him what I know and find out what he knows.
It takes me almost an hour with the two of us sitting hip to hip on his bed. I whisper near his ear as we play music on my iPod in the background. After that, he whispers in mine. Then we get approval for Cross to leave the grounds tomorrow.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
~HUNTER~
I'm in my library at the vineyard playing cards with myself when Marchant calls. I ignore him. My head is aching and I didn't get a damn bit of sleep last night. I don't want to talk to his hen-pecking ass. I'm sleeping worse since Libby left than I did before she got here. I guess I know now what I'm missing. I finish the game and re-deal my cards. I'm looking at them as I play, but I'm seeing Libby's face.
And I'm thinking about the other Libby—Dr. Libby—who came by again today, to “talk”. I know March put her up to it, but I can't find the energy to be angry. It's kind of nice to have my old shrink tell me I'm a good guy. Even nicer since it looks like that might hold.
Priscilla's threats are seeming more and more empty. For the first few days after she dropped by my house, I waited for the other shoe to fall, but it just hasn't. The FBI has stopped coming around, and Josh Smith from the LVPD has closed his case, giving it over to the shit-head, crooked cops in San Luis. For the past few days, Lockwood has been at his house doing nothing but watching satellite TV. Priscilla has been fucking a cop buddy of Smith's. If her phone conversations—recorded by Dave—are to be trusted, she's thinking of putting him in one of her films.
Sarabelle is dead, and that can't be changed. Her funeral was this morning. Dr. Libby was dressed for it when she came by.
Sarabelle is dead, and the case appears to be going nowhere. But I’m working on my own play for Lockwood and Priscilla. Mainly Lockwood. But Priscilla will get hers, too.
Marchant calls again.
I hit ignore.
Again five minutes later. “What is it, dude?”
“Hunter—fuck. Have you read the L.A. Times today?”
“No.” My whole body tenses. “Why?”
“There's allusions to you left and right in that story. House in California, one in Vegas. Heir who visits brothels. They're saying that the FBI has you as their prime suspect. I'm surprised you haven't missed a call or had them show up at your fucking house. The Times even put a bit in there about Rita. How she wasn't your real mother and your mom was an escort. Damn, man, I'm glad I knew that or I'd be shocked.”
“How'd you know?” I whisper. I feel cold.
“Dave found out. Man, are you okay?”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
“You want me to come over? I've got Dave all over this; he's checking with his contacts at the FBI. But he's started acting suspicious, dude. Says he found some shit in your family's closet that he wants to talk to you about. What do you think—”
I kill the call and walk slowly to the liquor cabinet. I've downed two shots when three men in gray suits ring my doorbell.
*
~ELIZABETH~
“Are you sure this is a solid plan?”
Cross is sitting beside me in the Camry, wearing a ball cap and looking grumpy.
“Oh, yeah. Hunter will tell me everything he's found about Jim Gunn AKA Michael Lockwood. I'm willing to bet there's something that could help you.” Now that I know Jim Gunn is Michael Lockwood, I'm even betting the information might help Hunter. I look back at Cross. “Hunter trusts me enough to share info, I think, and I trust him. It might turn out to be lucky for you both.”
Cross gazes out the window, the way he's done most of our drive, and I feel so sad for him. I take his hand before I think about which hand it is: his left one, the one whose fingers don't all work. I only have it for a second before he draws it back into his lap.
“It'll get stronger,” I murmur.
