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Malone might’ve been fifteen years old when we last met. I was in my twenties.
It might seem like a lifetime ago. But the world isn’t as big as some might think, and the Malones traded in powder just as much as, or perhaps more than, Vallejo ever did.
I wonder how much of his family’s temper remains in his blood? And how much of his career is about smoothing the way for his family, as opposed to a search for justice for the victims of crime?
He swore an oath to the second. He vowed to uphold the law when he received a badge and a weapon.
But he wouldn’t be the first dirty cop I met, and probably won’t be the last.
He wants Rory—maybe he wants to protect her, or maybe she’s merely a tool to get to Vallejo, to take a family, however low-rung they are in the grand scheme of the mafia world, out of the business and open up some more of the pie for the Malones.
Whatever his objectives, I intend to get to her first. To step in front of her and make damn sure the war on drugs doesn’t leave her with blood on her shirt and six bullets nestled deep in her belly.
“I want to do my job,” he finally answers through tight teeth. “To solve a homicide and clean our streets of another killer.”
“Uh-huh.” I settle back and cast my eyes to the street outside.We’ll see.
Rory
I’M A COWARD. I’M A SCARED LITTLE SHEEP. I’M A TERRIBLE HUMAN BEING.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been by to see you today, Mom.” I sit in the dark, in my cold house, with every door barricaded with dining chairs and every window taped shut. Not that a man with a gun couldn’t get through easily enough. But he’d be noisy, and the tape would slow him down just enough to give me a chance to run the other way.
The news plays on our small television set across the living room with Miranda London’s intensive reporting from the steps of the morgue I walked past a couple of nights ago. She’s a beautiful woman wrapped in a tight dress and with talon-like nails. Her lips are fire engine red, and her hair is windswept and very Pamela Anderson from Baywatch.
Elegant. Classy. And entirely too flawless for regular viewers to achieve in their search for that same touch of perfection.
“The Copeland City homicide division has yet to make an official statement on Lorenzo Lombardo’s murder,” she says by rote. “Which took place a stone’s throw from where I stand right now. Detectives Archer Malone and Charlie Fletcher are the primary investigators on file, but when Channel Seventy-Nine reached out for a statement, we were shut out.” Shetsk tsk tsksher disappointment, smirking like she knows picking at them will annoy them. “It distresses us down at Seventy-Nine that our local boys in blue refuse to communicate with the public on such pressing matters. But our promise to you, our loyal viewers, is to break the news first and keep you up-to-date on the murderer walking our streets.”
“Do you still have that cold, baby?” Mom’s voice grows weaker. She’s tired. But she holds her phone and takes my call, all because I’m too cowardly to walk out my door and go see her today. “Have you been taking your vitamins?”
“Yeah.” I sit on my kitchen floor, though our home is tiny and open-concept, so my legs almost touch the back of our couch, and my view of the television remains unimpeded. “I’m getting better,” I lie. “I just don’t want to risk getting you sick, so I thought we could talk today and maybe I’ll be able to visit tomorrow.”
“It’s okay,” she croons. Her maternal instincts still, even this close to death, override all else when she thinks I’m unwell. “We can video call too, you know, baby? Save you from trekking into town and wasting hours on the bus.”
“It’s not a waste.” Miranda London flashes a picture of Lorenzo Lombardo on the news, drawing tears to my eyes and nausea to my belly. I reach up and swipe the single drop that falls onto my cheek before it has a chance to dribble down to my jaw. “I study while I’m on the bus. I get loads of work done, and the reward at the end is always worth it.”
“I’m your reward?” she whispers, hopefully. “Really?”
“Yes.” I choke out a sob and swallow it down again before she can hear me and worry. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Mom.” A screeching sound brings my head around like a swivel, lacing panic into my veins at the threat of Lombardo’s killers finally realizing where I live. It’s been my constant fear since I ran through my door a couple of nights ago. The thought of them finding me and dragging me out of bed. The hot slash of what I assume bullets in my body would feel like, making me sick.
I haven’t switched off in days.
I’ve barely slept. And the small snatches I have managed have been for mere minutes and on the kitchen floor. Or the bathroom floor. The living room floor. Wherever was closest and not so high up that someone could shoot me through a window.
Noises continue outside, but the hiss and snarl of cats fighting brings me comfort before a steel trashcan lid slams to the sidewalk and circles, making me jump.
I squeeze my eyes shut and press my free hand to my pounding heart. “Jesus.”
“Honey?” Mom’s voice slurs, sleepy as she gradually loses her battle with the end of another day. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I—”
“You seem off,” she presses. “You sound really tense.”
“No.” I bring my hand up, pressing it to my forehead and cough to clear my throat; I make sure my voice is strong. Steady. “I’m okay, I swear. I have this paper due, and it’s dark out, so you know that already makes me a little twitchy. Stray cats are fighting and knocked the trashcans over, so I jumped, that’s all.”
“Are you sure? Is Nolan bothering you? Or your father? Remember, honey, boundaries. As long as you have those up, no one can hurt you.”
