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I sit up. She’ll come to me for supplies, necessities, clarification, the essentials… but it’s rare that she’ll ask me for a personal favor. “Shoot.”
“Exactly that.” Her eyes meet mine, even in the dark. “Shoot. When you find Greg Everett, when you bring him in to cleanup this whole mess… shoot that motherfucker right between the eyes.”
I was already planning on it, but I bite anyway. “Tell me.”
“They knew.” She pours herself a shot to the brim and tosses it back. “Her teachers, the school nurse… they all knew. Several tried to file a report, but they were dismissed because the case files went straight to LVPD at the same time Child Protective Services received them. Her fourth grade teacher nearly lost her job because Everett tried swinging the accusations back against her, but there was no evidence.”
I don’t want to ask. The vodka is already starting to churn in my stomach. “How far back does it go?”
Bambi opens her mouth to tell me. But she doesn’t. She can’t. Tears brim on her lashes. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her come close to crying since the day I met her.
Instead, she taps the screen of her tablet and slides it across the counter to me.
I shouldn’t have looked while downing another shot. The liquor almost goes up my nose; I’m that shocked at what I see.
They’re the standard pictures the Emergency Room takes for CPS whenever there’s a suspicious case in their midst. Pictures of fingerprint-shaped bruises, swollen eyes, cut lips, patches where hair was torn at the scalp. Broken skin in stripes across her back, like someone lashed her with a leather belt. In one photo, the clear imprint of a belt buckle can be seen on her ribs.
What makes me want to vomit and eviscerate Greg Everett at the exact same time is the oldest photo of the bunch.
Clara can’t be more than three years old.
She’s not looking at the camera, but it’s easy to see the tears streaking her tiny face. Picture after picture, she grows older. The tears lessen. Her face, what can be discerned, becomes more and more haunted.
By the time I flip to the pictures taken the night she was found at the warehouse, she’s a shell of a person.
“How.” I force myself to grind out the words through my fury and nausea. “How thefuckdid he get away with this?”
“You’ve seen him.” Bambi does what I’ve been aching to do and pulls a swig straight from her bottle. “He’s a charmer. Handsome, charismatic. Ahero.”
I hate so fucking much that she’s right. I don’t make a habit to play cards with Everett, but he’s on the news often enough regarding one case or another—and I remember him well from Tolya’s trial. He oozes charm and congeniality; as far as the local news is concerned, he’s a badged crusader who loves his city and cares for his people. The high school quarterback who grew up to become a beloved lawman with a beautiful wife and little girl. I can just imagine the way he’d act horrified at the news that someone laid their hands on his sweet angel, and then probably even more horrified that anyone would ever considerhimto be a suspect.
My hunch is right when Bambi takes her tablet back and reviews the rest of the files for me.
“No one wanted to believe Everett was beating his own daughter,” she explains. “He responded to so many domestic calls, carried children out of dangerous situations, advocated for protective orders… Did you know he even gave a talk at a national convention for domestic abuse survivors? Telling themhow to ‘notice the signs’ that their partner could be dangerous. Gave out hotlines to call if they’re in need. And that’s not even including the Career Days he attended at Clara’s schools to teach kids about personal safety.”
There’s a special place in hell for people like Greg Everett.
I intend to escort him there myself.
I take my own swig from the bottle now. I’m going to need to knock myself out just to sleep through the horrible images now seared in my brain. “How the fuck did he get mixed up with Martin Patterson?”
At this, Bambi shrugs. She turns her tablet off and sets it aside to nurse the tequila. From the way she was gripping that thing, I’d guess she was close to breaking it in half and throwing the pieces into the pool.
Which would have been fine by me. I’ll happily buy her a new one—one that’s devoid of those sickening photos.
“Just going off the staff reports and intel,” Bambi clarifies, holding a finger up, “I’m guessing he threw Clara out of the frying pan and into the fire. Made sure she went with someone who would keep her under control once she was out from under his own thumb.”
Someone like me.
I hate that thought even more. To be compared to either of those assholes is a whole new version of disgusting. But “control” is exactly what I’m doing to Clara, even if my motives are actually valid.
“This doesn’t change anything.” The burn in my throat makes my voice gravelly.
I actually sound like I mean it. Because I have to. This can’t change anything.
“Doesn’t it, though?”
I look at Bambi in surprise. And, to more of my surprise, she stares right back at me with the kind of fierceness that would usually get her reprimanded.
