by Leo, Cassia
“Even after seeing what a spectacularly awful fisherman I am, you still want to take me out into the middle of the woods with a loaded gun? Are you suicidal?”
He smiles as he shakes his head. “You’re telling me your dad never took you fishing or hunting?”
I swallow hard as I pass Steve a roasted potato. “My dad wasn’t allowed to own guns. He had pretty severe PTSD from his time in Iraq.”
His smile evaporates. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“How would you know?” I counter, then I let out a loud sigh. “Sorry, that was rude. It’s still hard to talk about it, I guess.”
“How old were you when he passed?”
“I was…twenty,” I reply, keeping my attention focused on handing Steve another potato, so I don’t have to look Colton in the eye.
It’s nerve-wracking and exhausting trying to keep up with the adjustments I make to the truth. Now I have to remember that my dad died nine years after he actually did. I have to come up with a method to simplify this. Maybe I should keep a spreadsheet.
A spreadsheet of lies. What would my father think of what I’ve become?
I don’t know the answer to that question, but all I can think — as Colton watches the fire in silence, probably trying to figure out how to respond to the news I lost my father at such a young age — is how much I want to tell him the truth.
Maybe if I tell him my dad died eleven years ago, and it was eleven-year-old me who found his dead body, it will bring Colton and me closer. Maybe then I won’t feel so alone in this new town. Maybe then Colton will understand what brought me here, should I ever decide to tell him about the suitcase.
“Must be tough,” he begins, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, “losing a parent at that age.”
I decide not to acknowledge the part about how old I was, instead opting to share one of my favorite memories of my father. “When he was still alive, my dad used to say that when he died, he wanted to have an open casket wake, and he wanted us to put a sign in his cold hand saying: See ya soon!”
Colton smiles, but it seems a bit forced. “Did you honor his wishes?”
“Are you kidding me?” I reply, setting down my empty plate on the dirt next to Steve so she can lick it clean. “My mom was too broken after my dad died. I can probably count on one hand the number of times I saw her smile during the f—the years between my dad’s death and when she started using.”
Shit. I almost said four years. If my dad died when I was twenty, that would mean he died two years ago. I’d have to be a time-traveler for that to make sense.
I definitely need to make a spreadsheet.
I also need to change the subject to shift the focus away from my past.
“So, your dad never took you hunting?” I ask, grabbing the clean plate at my feet and walking it over to the tray, where Colton left his plate.
“My dad was never around,” he replies, making no attempt to hide the way his eyes follow my ass as I walk past him. “My mom and dad divorced when I was pretty young. After that, he was just never around. He moved on.”
“Did you ever want to look for him?” I ask, still standing next to the tray as if Colton’s magnetism is too strong for me to escape.
He looks up at me and shakes his head. “As far as I was concerned, I didn’t have a father to look for.” He breaks eye contact and gazes into the dwindling fire again. “I had a bad attitude as a kid. Got into a lot of trouble. Even got myself cut from the varsity football team when I was counting on a scholarship. Ran my mouth a lot. From what I’ve heard of my dad, I take after him in that regard.”
“So you didn’t go to college?”
“I went, but only for, like, a year and a half before I realized how much of a financial burden I’d become on my mom. That’s when I dropped out and joined the military.”
I wonder if my mom will ever feel that way about me, now that she no longer has a daughter.
“So your dad didn’t take you hunting, and neither did mine,” I remark, heading toward the spot on the grass where Colton set down my new guitar. “But my dad used to hold pretend-concerts in our living room,” I say, picking up the guitar and dusting off the bottom, making a point to keep my mouth shut about how poorly Colton treated this guitar by laying it down on the scratchy dry grass. “My dad would announce me to the crowd and cheer me on during my performance. Sometimes, we would do duets for my mom. I would write these ridiculous songs, and he would compose music for them on the guitar. He loved music.”
He flashes me a genuine smile as I retake my seat on the boulder. “Are you finally ready to play?”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as I cross my legs and position the guitar in my lap. “I don’t have this one down just yet, so go easy on me. I might be a little out of tune.”
“Considering I’m tone deaf, I hardly expect I’ll notice.”
My chest starts to feel tight as my lungs attempt to keep up with my racing heartbeat. In between jobs and gigs, I used to busk on Las Vegas Boulevard for cash. There, under the glow of a billion flashing lights and starry-eyed tourists, I had no problem shutting out the world and my insecurities. But a one-on-one performance, for a man as sexy and of so many talents as Colton, is beyond daunting.
I close my eyes, so I don’t have to see his reaction as I begin to play and sing “Such A Simple Thing” by Ray LaMontagne. As the lyrics spill from my mouth, the meaning of the words — and what they may or may not mean to Colton — weigh heavy on me.
How can I make this man see how he sets my heart on fire?
When I’m done with the song, I open my eyes, and I’m startled to see Colton sitting on the edge of the boulder I’m sitting on.
“Jesus Christ, girl. You can sing,” he says, looking as if it’s the first time he’s ever laid eyes on me. “You should not be hiding in the North Carolina backwaters. You should be in Nashville trying to get a record deal.”
I shake my head and try not to blush as I set the bottom of the guitar down on the top of my sandaled foot. “You just told me you’re tone deaf. How am I supposed to trust what you say?”
The muscle in his jaw twitches as he seems to be experiencing some type of strong emotion I can’t quite pinpoint. “It’s mesmerizing to watch you perform. You go somewhere else when you play.”
I shrug. “It’s the only time I can be myself.”
The words come out faster than I can stop them, but I don’t regret speaking this truth.
He leans toward me, his hand coming up to brush a lock of hair from my cheek. “I hope someday you can be yourself with me.”
I stop breathing as I see him close his eyes. He places a tender kiss on the corner of my mouth. My skin tingles as the tip of his nose brushes against mine. But as soon as his lips fall over mine, I let out a soft sigh into his throat.
I can breathe again.
Colton’s lips are soft, but his kiss is infused with deep longing. It’s slow and fathomless. The kind of kiss I’m certain will leave me delirious and hungover.
He moans when I nip his bottom lip, and I get the impression he’s wanted this as long as I have. I want to let go of my guitar and tangle my fingers in his thick brown hair. I want to climb into his lap and feel him stiff against my center.
But I can’t let a $4,000 gift fall onto the dirt like a piece of trash. So instead, I pull away.
His hand is still on my face as we both attempt to catch our breath. “I should get inside,” he mutters. “I mean, you should get inside. It’ll be dark soon.”
I chuckle as I reach up to lay my free hand over his. “Okay, Dad.”
He lowers his hand from my face and chuckles, but it seems false, like he’s put his guard up again. “I’ll clean up out here. You go on home. I’ll… I’ll head over in the morning to look at your subfloor.”
My stomach tightens into a ball as I realize what I took for longing was probably just a desire to get laid by anyone. “All right. See you in the morning.�
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I glance back a few times as Steve and I walk back to my place, and each time Colton is still watching me. When I reach my back porch, I turn back one more time as I hold the door open for Steve. This time, Colton is facing the dying flames in the fire pit with his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
I don’t know what he’s thinking. And at this rate, I may never know.
I close the door behind me and groan as I realize I forgot to leave the window air conditioner on before I left the house earlier. It’s stiflingly warm and humid inside.
Immediately, I head for the bathroom to cool off in the shower. But as I enter, the drunken toilet only serves as a cruel reminder of how close I almost got with Colton today. Instead of allowing that to deter me, I head into the bathroom and close the door behind me.
I should let this crooked toilet be a reminder of how I need to also play my cards close to the vest. I have to acknowledge I made some mistakes today. I shared too much with Colton.
Looking in the mirror, I can see an eighth of an inch of blonde roots showing near my scalp. I’ll dye those tonight, right before I make my spreadsheet of lies. And later this week, I’m moving that suitcase.
From now on, I’ll be more careful with the truth…and my heart.
14 King
Present Day
As I wait for Agent Stanley to return from the restroom, the interrogation room gets colder and my chair becomes less comfortable. I remind myself that my physical discomfort is partly by design and partly a product of my own anxiety and guilt ratcheting up. My life depends on my ability to maintain my composure.
The door handle turns, and in walks Agent Stanley joined by Detective Sooner. It seems we’ve reached the point in the interview where it’s time for them to double-team me.
Sooner sets down a foam cup filled with water in front of me. “You hungry yet? We’ve got a great taco truck outside,” he offers, and I shake my head. “Okay, just let us know when you get hungry, and we can fix you up.”
I want to ask how long this fucking interview is going to take, but I bite my tongue. I resist the urge to rid myself of some of this nervous energy by tapping my foot, focusing again on taking slow, deep breaths.
Stanley takes the seat across from me, while Sooner takes the one next to him. “I was just in contact with Izzy’s mother, and she won’t be coming out here. She says she can’t afford the flight. Have you met Izzy’s mother yet?”
“No, sir,” I reply, trying not to let the disdain show on my face.
It doesn’t surprise me that Izzy’s mom can’t scrape together the money for the flight. I don’t know if Stanley is implying I should offer to pay for her plane ticket, but I have zero intention of assisting that woman.
Sooner takes a sip of water then smacks his lips. “I can’t imagine being so hard up for cash I couldn’t afford a couple hundred bucks for a flight to search for my missing daughter. That poor woman.”
My heart speeds up at the news that they’re out there searching for Izzy. Then I remind myself that they’ll never find her, and the harsh pounding in my chest quiets to a slow thump.
Deep breaths.
Stanley opens up a manila folder and slides a photograph across the table toward me. “You recognize this guy?”
I stare at the surveillance photo of Garrett Hunt at the front desk of Area 69 Brothel. He’s handing a credit card to the receptionist. On the floor next to his left leg is a metal suitcase. That fucking idiot owner of the brothel deleted the surveillance footage in front of me, and he swore up and down there were no backups.
“He’s a friend of mine, Garrett,” I reply.
“Garrett Hunt,” Stanley says, the volume of his voice escalating. “The son of Nevada Congressman Richard Hunt. The kid who earned a purple heart for taking an IED to the face in Afghanistan. In fact, you were there when that happened, weren’t you?”
I grit my teeth against the wave of emotions threatening to wash away my calm. “Yes, sir.”
“Are you aware Garrett passed away recently?” Sooner asks in a soft, reassuring tone, to which I nod. “A drug overdose. A damn shame he couldn’t get the help he needed.”
“He died June tenth,” Stanley says, tapping the photo. “Isn’t that the same day Izzy was last seen in Nevada?”
I try not to roll my eyes as I realize their new tactic is to attempt to convince me that Izzy is in trouble with the law. That she’s somehow involved in Garrett’s death. They’ll probably start promising to give me a good plea deal if I turn against her.
“I don’t know when Izzy was last seen in Nevada,” I reply.
Sooner leans forward. “Help me understand this,” he begins, still using a conciliatory tone. “According to Izzy’s friend Tiffany, she gets a call from Izzy on the evening of June tenth saying she’s on her way to Tiffany’s house, but she never gets there. So Tiffany calls Izzy’s mom the next day to see if she’s seen Izzy, but she’s too messed up on heroin to know what the heck Tiffany is talking about. So Tiffany tries to file a police report with the Vegas PD, but Vegas PD doesn’t think it’s their jurisdiction since no one knows where Izzy was when she called Tiffany.
“So you can see how Tiffany might be a little frustrated,” Sooner continues. “But Izzy’s an adult, and there’s no reason for them to suspect foul play, so their hands are tied. Until Tiffany decides to hire herself a lawyer.”
Stanley pulls a sheet of paper — a printout of a map — from his manila folder and slides it across the table toward me. “Vegas PD pulled the cell ping data from Izzy’s phone. Her last phone call was made from Amargosa Valley, Nevada. Does that location sound familiar to you?”
I shake my head. “Not particularly.”
“Not particularly,” Stanley mimics me like a fucking child. “You telling me that if I pull the GPS data from you and Edwin Santos’ vehicles back in Nevada, it won’t show a trip to Amargosa Valley on June tenth?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t drive much in Vegas.”
Sooner glances at Stanley, sees him seething with anger, and decides to intercede. “So, King, did you know Izzy was working at a brothel before she moved to Valdese?”
I shrug. “I don’t think she ever mentioned that.”
Sooner nods. “Okay, so back to Garrett Hunt. Were you aware that he frequented the Area 69 Brothel in Amargosa Valley, where this surveillance footage was taken?”
Stanley taps the photo again. “That’s footage from the night he died. The guy who owns the brothel says he saw Garrett arrive that night, but he didn’t see him leave. And there’s no footage of Garrett leaving the brothel, so he must have left through an exit that wasn’t covered by surveillance cameras. My question is: How does a guy who’s that fucked up on smack make the one-hour drive back to Vegas? Then, and only then, does he drop dead in his condo? That doesn’t make any sense to me. Does that make sense to you?”
I narrow my eyes at Stanley. “How do you know he got high at the brothel? Maybe he waited until he was home.”
Stanley and Sooner exchange a look, then they both nod in unison.
“I’m sure you can imagine the jurisdictional nightmare they have going on over there in Nevada right now,” Stanley says. “The brothel falls under the jurisdiction of the Nye County Sheriff’s Office. They’ve got surveillance footage of a guy just hours before his death on June tenth. And they’ve got a missing girl whose last cell phone ping, from June tenth, registers in that exact location. But both victims live in Vegas, the guy’s body is found in Vegas, and the last person to speak to our missing girl has lawyered up. A real clusterfuck, eh?”
I cock an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
Sooner shakes his head. “Look, King, I don’t expect you to sympathize with us. This is our job. But think about Izzy’s mom. She told me she’s been trying to get herself clean ever since Izzy disappeared. She was really distraught when I spoke to her over the phone. I could hear it in her voice. She wants to find her daug
hter… You can help her, King. You can be the one to end this. Just tell us where she is. Tell us.”
We’ve officially entered the part of the interrogation where they’re going to attempt to appeal to my humanity. Maybe it’s time to call a lawyer.
I know I haven’t given them any reason to arrest me, or they would have read me my Miranda rights by now. But I don’t know how long it will take for them to get a warrant for the GPS data from Santos’ SUV in Vegas. If I stick around too long, I might find myself caught in their net. But if I don’t stall long enough, I might not get enough information to figure out my next step. And I still don’t have the information I need.
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” I reply simply.
Stanley lets out an exasperated sigh. “You worked construction in Vegas?”
I look him in the eye as I respond. “I own a construction company in Vegas.”
He squints at me for a moment before he continues. “You do any work for Congressman Hunt?”
I glance at Sooner, then back to Stanley. “Yeah, I did some work for him.”
“Would you say you did a lot of work for him or just a little? Like, did you build him a hotel or did you remodel his bathroom?”
“A lot of work, I suppose.”
“Really? So, was it all construction work? Or did you ever do any other kind of side jobs for him?” Stanley persists.
I stare at the door, letting the question hang in the air and ripen for a while as I feel Stanley’s frustration coming off him in waves. “Just construction work,” I answer.
Stanley chuckles as he shakes his head. “You gotta give us more than that, ’cause this is starting to look more and more like conspiracy to commit murder, and you’re sitting right smack dab in the middle of this pile of shit.”
Bingo. That’s one piece of information I’ve been waiting for.
Sooner casts a nervous glance in Stanley’s direction before he addresses me. “He’s not saying you’re being charged with anything. But it’s not looking really good for Izzy right now, and we really need your help to find her. If she’s alive, she might be in real danger from some very powerful people.”