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“Full exoneration is on the table, Ridge,” Faulk throws out, not a hint of surprise in his voice.
I’m floored.
I also hate to ask my next question.
“You talked to the FBI about busting the Grendal machine, didn’t you?” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Faulk, what do you have in mind?”
Grady flips the sign to CLOSED and hangs it on the Purple Bobcat’s purple-tinted glass door, turning the lock.
I wait for him to join us before I say a word, folding my hands together on the bartop. Sweat beads on my brow.
I’ve barely said a word to Faulk and Drake since they showed up.
I don’t have a clue how this will go down, admitting I poisoned a man, and I’m fully open to illegal shit again in a worst-case scenario.
Grady tops off everyone’s beers, filling his own glass from a tap of some pitch-black ale infused with coffee, then hunkers down behind the bar, scratching his dark beard.
“I’m ready. What’s this all about? Faulk said you had something on your mind?” he asks.
“I…fuck it, guys. Here goes.” My eyes flit over them, lingering an extra second on Drake’s Dallas PD badge, gleaming gold in the light. He’s still in uniform. “I’ve told you guys what happened to my mom. Some of you may have gone looking deeper, wondering what’s really up with me. Can’t blame you if you did.”
“You’ve only left your ass hanging out with the boring Hollywood stuff, Barnet. Not to mention way too many leaked pictures of your junk online—I hope they’re all fake. Believe me, I’ve checked into you and seen some things I wish I hadn’t.” Faulk looks at me over his glass, taking a long pull off his amber beer. “Fella’s gotta do something to keep his record hunting sharp, though.”
“This about that Hammond guy again?” Drake asks, looking up from swirling his beer, a can of some North Dakota local brew. “You told me it was over after you busted his nose, I thought? Aren’t we talking about the new threat?”
“Yes…and no.” I pause, this heavy blackness in my heart making me too sick to sip my beer. “Basically, I fucking killed him.” I pause. “You heard me.” I pause again, inhaling sorely needed breath. “No, I wasn’t the guy who pulled the trigger, and I didn’t know him. But I met Linus Hammond in a bar one night. I slipped this stuff in his drink and made him a vegetable. Tobin tried to stop me, and he’s the only one who knows. I didn’t listen.”
It’s a true record scratch freeze-frame moment.
Everybody’s glasses stop where they are.
All eyes are on me, saying the same thing. Holy shit.
I swallow loudly, wishing I had some water.
“Well…that’s…fuck,” Grady grunts, pounding back his beer in one bearish gulp. “You had your reasons. He murdered your ma. Can’t say I wouldn’t do the same in your shoes.”
His glass comes down hard on the countertop like a gavel.
Verdict served.
I hope.
Faulk and Drake look his way. At least Drake hasn’t slapped me in handcuffs yet, I guess, but I’m not sure it’s a good sign.
“You went looking for justice,” Faulk says, shifting in his seat, his eyes softening to darker forest green, looking somewhere far off. “You’ll never catch me saying it on record, but…sometimes it’s the cleaner, neater option than an FBI case file. I’m guessing you were short on evidence, proving what that fucker did?”
I nod slowly. “If I’d had anything solid, I would’ve hired every law firm I could to nail his dick to the wall. What I did was the only way. Truth be told, I meant to kill him, but the dose I gave him was off, or something didn’t mix right with the wine…whatever the case, it wasn’t meant to be.”
My gaze shifts to Drake, who’s glaring, gripping his beer. His sharp blue eyes are like trying to decipher a glacier.
“Man, you’re lucky you didn’t fuck your own ass,” he says finally, sliding a hand through his dark-blond hair. “But if you think I’m gonna sit here cussing you out for going outside the law…I did the same thing for Bella. For Winnie. For Jonah Reed. Just because I’ve got a badge now doesn’t mean I don’t remember what it was like without one when trouble came calling.”
“So you won’t tell Sheriff Wallace?” I smile, tilting my head.
“Never,” he growls, sucking down his beer angrily. “Bigger question: what do you need? Since you mentioned poison, don’t tell me you’re thinking about going that route again? Doesn’t work when you’re up against a crew of brawlers with guns.”
“It shouldn’t come to that,” I say. “What we need is something big to draw them in. Bust their asses. Lure Clay and his boys here with cargo that’d make him a slam-dunk case for the cops, the FBI, the DEA.”
