“How do you know this?” I asked him.
“People say the most interesting things when they know they’re going to die,” Jon murmured. He took another drink of the cold coffee, but this time, his facial expression didn’t change. It was like there was no point in complaining when he knew he couldn’t change it.
Except he could.
“Do you want me to warm that up for you?” I asked, stepping forward and extending my hand out so I could do just that.
He looked down at the Grumpy mug and seemed to consider it. After a long moment, he shook his head.
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”
I nodded and resumed my stance near my doorway. “Tell me again,” I said. “How do you know they’re going to do it again? I thought you took out everyone involved in Operation Bloodshade.”
“Like I said,” Jon said, “people talk when they’re about to die. There are two more people associated with Bloodshade, the new Bloodshade. Crawford”—he looked down at the folder—“and someone else. I don’t know his name but the way people talk about him, it’s like he’s some kind of war god.”
“Ares,” I murmured to myself.
Jon looked at me but didn’t comment. I had a habit of muttering to myself and it would seem as though he was used to it.
“Anyway,” he said. “Crawford stepped down to head this up. Getting paid nearly double the salary for half the work and sending our men in uniform back to a facility that’s going to ruin their lives.”
I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to make a comment. If I did, Jon wouldn’t like it, we would probably argue, and then he would stalk off. Jon had one mindset and one alone. He thought one way, and no matter how hard I tried to convince him otherwise, he wouldn’t budge. He was stubborn as a mule and that was all there was.
“And what do you intend to do?” I asked. “So she’s heading this department. She was head of CIA when you were turned. How is she responsible for what happened to you?”
“It’s not about me anymore—”
“It’s always been about you,” I snapped, cutting him off. “What you’re doing, taking lives, fine. Do what you feel you need to do. But you don’t speak for everyone. They saved your life!”
“They ruined my life!” Jon bellowed, his voice vibrating off my walls.
I straightened. Despite my utter faith in him and the fact that I knew he would never hurt me, I was slightly intimidated by his voice when he wanted to use it to his advantage.
“Not you too, Lara,” he said. His voice had grown soft, strained. I could feel his eyes on me, hard and heavy. There was a slap of accusation in his tone, like he could not believe I said what I said.
“Do I think they were right by taking away your right to choose whether or not you should live?” I asked. I raised my voice but I couldn’t bring myself to lower it. “No, of course not. But you’re here in front of me. You’re alive. And I’m grateful for that. You don’t have to feel the same way as I do but someone who was saved by them might feel differently than you. You don’t speak for them all.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Why do think you get to play God?”
The question was out of my mouth before I even realized I said it. This was what bothered me about Jon. I knew he was no monster, but his justification for killing didn’t add up to me.
“So that’s what this is.” He stood up and proceeded to step towards me. His eyes homed in on my cross and he continued to walk to me. I refused to back down, refused to back up or move out of the way. “You think I don’t have a right to act out how I choose to do so. Tell me, Red.” He went back to my nickname rather than my first name. I would never admit this out loud but that hurt. It was as though we took two steps forward and then ten steps back. “You think you can preach to me? Maybe you think you can save my soul? My humanity died when I did back in Afghanistan.” He stopped when he was directly in front of me.
My mouth went dry. He was too close. I could smell him, that deep, musky scent that clung to him like a shadow. I hissed a breath but it wouldn’t come out. I needed air. Oxygen. But I couldn’t grasp on to anything.
“I’m not,” I said but stopped. I hated that he had this power over me. I sounded like a blundering fool and not the strong, independent journalist that I was. “I’m not trying to save you, Jon. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” I forced myself to risk it. I forced myself to look him in the eyes. He was watching me, his gaze intense and sharp. My breath caught again, seeing myself reflected back in his eyes. “I think you’re broken and damaged. I think you have scars, physically and emotionally, that might not ever heal. And I don’t think you’re going to find whatever you’re looking for being saved by someone like me. Because who am I to save you?”
Jon continued to look at me. He was half a head taller than I was. If I rolled to the balls of my feet, I would be able to look him on equal footing. I would be able to kiss him if I wanted.
And I didn’t want that.
I thought about it, but we were both damaged in our own way. We weren’t ready for that.
“I am not perfect,” I continued. “I have skeletons in my closet just like you do. I’m not God. But I’m not going to save you—not because I can’t but because I don’t think you need to be saved.” I reached up and cupped his cheek in my hand. I was sure my palm was probably clammy, maybe shaking slightly, but I didn’t care. I needed to touch him. I needed him to know that I was serious about this. “I—” I stopped myself, nearly saying something I might later regret. “I think you’re perfect just the way you are. You don’t need to change. You don’t need to be saved.”
Jon tilted his head down, and I swore, in that moment, he was going to kiss me. My heart jumped into my throat when the thought crossed my mind and I realized how badly I wanted just that. I wanted it more than I wanted anything.
But just as he was about to place his lips on mine, he took a step back.
I blinked.
Of course.
We weren’t ready for that. He wasn’t ready. I definitely wasn’t ready.
He took another step back and another until he was back at the table. He downed the rest of his coffee and then rubbed his lips with the back of his hand. He glanced back at me as he tucked the Manila folder under his arm.
“Thank you,” he said.
I didn’t know if he was referring to the coffee or the folder. Knowing him, probably both.
I nodded my head, unable to say much at all, but I kept my eyes on him as he walked out of my apartment.
The minute he closed the door, I felt myself able to breathe again.
It was a good thing he was gone. I knew that. And yet, I couldn’t help but replay the thought in my mind over and over as I stared up at my ceiling on my bed, and thought of all the possible ways it could have gone differently.
Chapter 7
I was in no mood to deal with bitches the next day, but I made a promise to Jon and I always kept a promise. It was one of those things that had been instilled in me at an early age thanks to my uncle and it was a trait of mine I admired in both him and myself. There was a lot of corruption today. No one ever meant what they said. It was why cynicism was so rampant. But I tried to be different. Sure, I lied and cheated and got my hands dirty, but, if I made a promise, I always came through.
Even if it meant dealing with Yvonne.
- - -
The sunflowers were already wilting two days after Jon was in my house. It was strange; even though he had been gone for at least forty-eight hours, I still felt his presence, both overwhelming and heavy lingering in my apartment. It felt small when he was there, like I didn't have enough space for myself. Like he was always just a little bit too close.
When I got into work on Thursday, my phone was chirping with messages. I had two missed calls, and my boss was waiting in my office, leaning against the edge of my desk with her arms crossed over her chest.
"What do I owe the
pleasure, Michelle?" I asked as I placed my trench coat on my coat hanger before dropping my briefcase beside my desk and plopping down into my chair. I crossed my legs and scooted so the chair was under the desk and I flipped open my laptop.
"Why did Mayor Guzman's office just call me, requesting you do a spotlight on her?" she asked.
I blinked. "What?"
"I think you heard me." Michelle stood up and grabbed the ends of her crisp white blazer, pulling them down so any wrinkles that had accumulated while sitting disappeared. "You have a specific type of relationship with her and it's not a secret. Maybe it's an olive branch?"
I snorted before I could stop myself. Guzman didn't like olives or trees. There was no way she was doing this to make things right between her and me. She probably didn't even care about me except when it had to do with me exposing what a corrupt, vindictive politician she was. This was strategic on her end. There was something wrong with this request. I knew it in my gut. I should say no, but…
"I don't think it's that," I said, clearing my throat and looking away.
"I don't think it's that either." She started pacing up and down my office, her arms crossed over her chest. No one really saw her like this, and I think the only reason she was allowing herself to do it now was because my office blinds were drawn and I closed the door after walking inside. "But it's front page material, I can tell you that much."
"Do you really think I would sell my soul to get front page by doing a fluff piece on Mayor Guzman?" My entire brow was wrinkled in disbelief. Surely Michelle knew me better than that.
"Of course not," Michelle insisted. She stopped pacing and turned her to me, her arms now down by her sides. "But this is it, right? You have Mayor Guzman sitting down. You're the one asking the questions. You're the one in control."
I leaned back in my chair, my hands hanging limply from the arm rests. "Okay," I said, "but I'm almost positive there are stipulations. Like, I can't ask about her cartel uncle or the fact that I think she's somehow responsible for what's going on with wounded soldiers and transforming them into lycans."
"I still need evidence before I can even bring that to light," Michelle said. She resumed her pacing, the heels of her shoes clacking on the hardwood floor.
"Isn't Jon proof enough?"
"He would be, if he wasn't a mass murderer."
I pressed my lips together to hold back a comment. She was right. There was no point in arguing motive, no point in reminding her that the people of Perry were safer from Jon Hawkins than they were from Stephanie Guzman.
"Listen, Lara, I think this is a story you were meant to write." Michelle stopped her pacing once again so she could walk over to my desk, lean down, and place her hands on the edge. "You want to expose how corrupted she is? Take the interview."
"And the fact that she sent two of her thugs to try and kill me?" I tilted my head to the side so my hair spilled over my shoulder. I didn't want her to see that I was slightly nervous at the prospect of going back into the lion's den when I so recently escaped with my life. If Jon hadn't shown up…I didn't even want to think about what would have happened to me, but death would have been a mercy.
"Guzman may be corrupt," Michelle said, pushing off my desk and turning so she walked to my door, "but she's not stupid. Would she really call to set up this interview only to kill you? Everyone would see what she has been trying to hide—that she is a murderer, a criminal, and the last person Perry should have as mayor." She stopped at my door, one hand on the handle, before turning and making eye contact with me. "I think this is the perfect opportunity for you to bring her down."
"There's no way she's going to admit how corrupt she is," I pointed out.
"No," Michelle agreed. "But at the very least, you can ask her direct questions and see how she reacts. You can make her uncomfortable. And if she stops the interview? Maybe that's enough for your cute cop friend to finally start looking into her."
I sighed. Michelle had a point. And why was I being so scared about this anyway? I wanted a way in, and this was perfect. I didn't get scared. Even with Jon, I was—
Okay, there was a point in the beginning where I was scared with him. But when I went into his story, I realized that fear was worthless.
Guzman, on the other hand… Despite the fact that I couldn't actually prove she tried to kill me, I felt as though this was one big trap. I didn't want to take the interview, but I was also aware I had no choice.
"Call her team back," Michelle instructed as she handed me a slip of paper. "I emailed you a copy of the message they left and their phone number. I think they want to do tomorrow. Get that front page, Lara. You were not meant for fluff."
The door closed after her departure and I hoped it hit her on the way out. No luck.
I picked up my desk phone—something I rarely used—and began to dial the number Michelle gave me.
"Mayor Guzman's office," a perky voice greeted after one ring. "This is Daisy on the phone. How may I assist you?"
I pinched the bridge of my nose. Everything inside of me told me not to do this, that this was some big setup, but I knew it was necessary for me to get proof. Estrada said he couldn't even open up an investigation without evidence. I needed to get that evidence because nobody else would. And interviewing the mayor would be the perfect excuse for me to start snooping around in her office. And yet, I couldn't ignore the coiled tension that caused my stomach to squeeze with anticipation. Like this was a bad idea.
I cleared my throat. "Yes, hi, Daisy," I said. Unfortunately, I couldn't muster up the same level of enthusiasm as she had. "My name is Lara Tucker, and I received a notice that Mayor Guzman's team reached out to my editor because they wanted me to do a piece on our mayor."
I nearly gagged on the word mayor. I wanted to replace it with criminal but I didn't think Daisy would appreciate it. Although, there was a good chance it wouldn't matter, not with the amount of pep she had for eight thirty in the morning.
"Oh, yes, of course!" There was a beat and I heard shuffled papers. "Mayor Guzman loves reading your work. She said she wanted something done before the upcoming election and thought you would be the perfect person to get her story out there. Everyone knows about her family, but no one really knows her, you know?"
I wanted to throw up again and all I had was coffee. What a waste of good coffee.
"Let's see," Daisy continued. "She's booked the rest of the week, but—oh! She has an hour tomorrow at ten. Would that work for your schedule? She wanted to do an intimate piece at her home. That way, you could meet her family and get to know them. She's excited at the prospect of showing her other side to Perry. Everyone knows her as Hugo Guzman's niece or Solomon Guzman's daughter. She wants to be Stephanie Guzman, you know?"
I did.
"Sure," I managed to get out.
"Perfect!" There was scratching on the line, and it sounded as though Daisy was writing something down. "I've got you down for ten. Let me get you her address. She does live in a gated community, but please give the security guard up front your name. We'll make sure you're on the list."
"Thanks." I couldn't even muster enough exclamation as we both got off the phone. I shook my head. I needed more coffee.
I walked out of my office and across the floor, past cubicles and printers and computers. The break room was on the opposite end, and luckily, no one was inside. For a moment, I could have a little peace outside of my office.
I grabbed the coffee pot, glad it still had some coffee left, and poured it into a Styrofoam cup. There were two stacks of them next to the coffee supplies. I added French vanilla cream and took a seat at one of the circular desks, turning my attention to the television.
"…odd that we haven't heard of the Big, Bad Wolf in the past few months and no one knows if that's a good thing or a bad thing," the news reporter said. He had on an eye roll-inducing yellow bowtie and a pressed blue suit, his graying hair combed to the side. "Tell us what you think. Is he gone for good? Or is something m
ore nefarious going on?"
I nearly snorted at that. Nefarious? That was a joke. I swear, these news channels were grasping at straws when it came to trying to add drama to the local news.
I finished my coffee and tossed out the cup in the large trash can placed just before the door. My eyes could not help but skim the bulletin board, filled with new job opportunities within the newspaper or stuff employees were selling. I never knew what I was looking for when I did this, but I always thought I might come across something important. So far, no such luck.
When I got to my desk, I knew there was something I needed to do but couldn't remember what that was. I took some time to start typing up questions I wanted to ask the mayor, especially since I was scheduled to be at her place tomorrow morning, but the enthusiasm wouldn't come. The words stalled. It was like running through quicksand, and I hated it because I knew this was a good opportunity and I couldn't figure out why I wasn't looking forward to it.
I picked up my phone again just before lunch and called Estrada's desk phone.
"Estrada." He answered on the third ring.
"What sort of evidence do you need?" I asked. We both didn't have the time to waste on nonsensical small talk.
"Irrefutable proof," he replied without missing a beat. "Something that spells it out."
"Something that does your job for you," I corrected.
"You're not planning to do anything illegal, are you, Tucker?"
"How dare you?" I said. "I am insulted by the insinuation. Actually, I got invited to her home to interview her tomorrow at ten o'clock, thank you very much. It's not illegal if I'm invited in, right?"
I heard Estrada inhale sharply. "She invited you to her home?" he asked. "And you're going?"
The tension turned my stomach over now. If Estrada was questioning this, that only added to my hesitation. Not that I would admit it to him, of course.
"Of course I'm going," I said, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt. "This is the perfect opportunity to get you what you need. Why wouldn't I go?"
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