Beard Necessities: Winston Brothers Book #7

by Penny Reid

  “I will.”

  “Right away. No more of y’all keeping noble, long-suffering secrets. I will lock you together in another basement.”

  “I’ll tell him. No more secrets. But don’t you think it’s time someone stepped up and helped him? He’s done so much, not just for me, but for you, your family, for Green Valley, for Tennessee. Someone has to put him first. Someone has to keep him safe.”

  “This isn’t about paying a debt is it? You know he did what he did because—”

  “Because he loves me,” I finished for him. “And I swear, this isn’t about paying a debt. Between people who love each other, there is no debt, only surplus. I’m doing this for myself.”

  “You’re flying back to Nashville to have a chat with Razor Dennings for yourself. Sure. Seems legit.”

  “Is that a yes? Will you help me?”

  My friend grumbled something, sighed, grumbled something else, but eventually said, “Okay. Yes. I’ll help.”

  When you’re the only civilian with a stampede of FBI agents, and are escorted into the Riverbend Maximum Security Institution in Nashville surrounded by said stampede of agents, you will draw curious glances, glares, and side-eyes. This is especially true when you’re the first visitor Razor Dennings has agreed to see or talk to outside of his legal team.

  Or maybe the employees and guards gave me a second glance because they recognized me as country’s reigning bad girl of bluegrass? Doubtful.

  Build a wall. One brick at a time. Don’t let anything in. Don’t let him in.

  I’d been repeating these words to myself since leaving the hotel in Venice almost twenty-four hours prior, an old incantation I hadn’t summoned in almost two decades. I thought I’d prepared, I thought I’d built the wall that would keep me safely numb. But walking through this place reminded me of the Iron Wraith’s compound—with all its stark cement, random stairwells, labyrinth of hallways—and now I’d broken out in a cold sweat.

  For Billy. Do it for Billy. Think of Billy.

  That helped.

  “Through here, Ms. McClure.” Special Agent Hisako Nelson opened a black metal door and gestured for me to step inside it. “In a few minutes, your father will be at the second stall. Pick up the phone if you want to talk to him. As you requested, I’ll be just out of sight, listening in. If you want to end the discussion, you can just stand up and leave. Okay?”

  I nodded my understanding, but I hesitated just inside the door, my feet refusing to take another step forward. I was so afraid. I knew he couldn’t touch me—he’d be behind the glass partition, there were guards, this was a maximum security prison, he couldn’t even hold a knife—and yet, the fear paralyzed me.

  “Ms. McClure?”

  I glanced at Agent Nelson. Simone’s friend, I reminded myself.

  Agent Nelson had picked me up from the airport with her stampede of FBI. She’d made no effort to disguise her inspection of me then, and she made no effort to disguise it now.

  “Ms. McClure, are you sure you want to do this?”

  I nodded again.

  Her inspection intensified. “You seem terrified.”

  “I am,” I whispered.

  The agent shifted on her feet, seeming agitated, and glanced behind me to the stampede of agents. “Back off. Give us a minute.”

  I heard reluctant footsteps on the linoleum floor as the agents behind me moved away, giving us space. Hisako Nelson reminded me of that actress Linda Park, only taller, with a deeper voice and a take-no-shit attitude.

  Her gaze tracked the withdrawal of her fellow agents, and then moved back to me. “Why are you here? If you’re so scared of him—and believe me, I get it, he’s fucking terrifying—why fly all the way back from Italy to see him?”

  I’d practiced this part, and my desire to be believable for Billy’s sake edged aside my terror paralysis. For the moment.

  “He’s not why I’m in Nashville. I didn’t fly back to see him.”

  “He’s not?”

  “No.” I fiddled with the edge of my sweater. “I’m here performing at the Nashville Music Festival. My-my father was arrested while I was overseas.”

  “And yet, here you are.” Her gaze narrowed, moving over me as though my goals might be written someplace on my clothes. “Again, if he scares you, why are you here?”

  I pressed my lips together, angling my chin in a show of defensiveness. “He’s my father.”

  “He’s a serial killer.”

  “That’s not proven.” Good Lord, I felt like I was going to be sick as soon as the words left my mouth.

  Her lip curled in a display of sudden disgust. “You know, I’ve met your mother. You look a lot like her, sound like her too.”

  The cold resolve and detachment that had evaded me as soon as we walked into the prison made a sudden reappearance. Obviously, Agent Nelson believed my act so far. And that was good. I didn’t need her respect, but I did need her to trust I had no hidden motives. Thus, comparing me to my mother was an excellent start.

  “I’m ready,” I said, meeting her stare squarely.

  “Go ahead.” She gestured to the hall dismissively.

  Turning from her, swathed in my cloak of numbness and determination, I told my feet to move, I told my feet to stop at the second booth. I told my body to sit in the chair facing the glass. I told myself to cross my arms. I told myself to wait.

  Out of the corner of my eye I noted—and rejoiced—that Agent Nelson hadn’t closed the door and other agents had started to gather. I knew they wouldn’t be able to hear my father’s side of the conversation, but as long as she kept that door open even a little, they’d hear everything I said. Which meant I had to be believable. I had to say my lines perfectly.

  Build a wall. One brick at a time. Don’t let anything in. Don’t let him in.

  I didn’t allow myself to think about what would happen next. The truth was I had no idea what to expect, but the goal was to talk to him for fifteen minutes—at most—and then leave. That’s it. That’s all. I could do that. For Billy. Do it for Billy. Think of Billy.

  A loud buzzing sound followed by the sound of a door unlocking yanked me from my thoughts and I flinched. My muscles tensed, ready to flee, and I held my breath. Using a mental crowbar to force my features to relax—or at least appear relaxed—I carefully wiped my face of all expression.

  Wrestling with my frantically beating heart, I retreated within myself, telling my mind to take me far from here. Think of Billy. Think of Venice. Think of barley fields and red poppies. My heart slowed even as a voice within my head screamed at me to leave, to run, to flee. I smothered it.

  Vaguely, I was aware that he’d sat down in the seat on the other side of the glass and bile rose up my esophagus. I felt a little faint. I needed to breathe. This is it. Think of Billy. I drew in a lungful of bracing air, held it, and I lifted my gaze.

  Those electric blue eyes—which were inescapable in my nightmares—stared at me from behind wire-rimmed glasses. I breathed out slowly. They were still terrifying. I firmed my lips. I held his stare. My jaw ached.

  He watched me for several seconds, inspecting me as I sat perfectly still, a wave of revulsion followed the trail of his eyes. My heart didn’t precisely slow, but it had ceased galloping. Then he moved. I flinched instinctively, even though all he did was reach for the phone. Clumsily, he held it pressed between the back of his hands. I watched as he used a combination of his chin, shoulder, and the side of his limp fingers to position it in place.

  I blinked, my frown genuine as I observed this shackled man and his awkward attempt to hold a telephone receiver. While he struggled, I allowed myself to truly look, to see my father as he was now and not the menacing figure in my memory.

  His once long, black hair had been sheared short. He wore a cream-colored jumpsuit, much too baggy for his thin frame, that blended in with his pale skin. The large lenses of his glasses seemed too big for his narrow face. I couldn’t help but think, He’s a lot smaller than
I remember.

  Then he lifted his chin toward the receiver on my end and mouthed something like, Pick it up.

  I did.

  As soon as I brought it to my ear, his voice said, “Baby girl,” but it was slightly distorted by the connection, like talking to someone through a paper cup. Eyes narrowed, he continued his piercing inspection of me. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “I can’t either.” My voice was flat, but something about it or my words had him cracking a smile.

  “Fucking dry humor.” He lifted his chin, trying to move his mouth closer to the receiver. “Why are you here? Huh? You working for the law too?”

  “I’m a singer. I work for myself.”

  This statement seemed to amuse him as well. “Yeah, I know. They call you the Devil’s Daughter. I like that a lot. You’ve done me proud.”

  I swallowed against another threatening rise of stomach acid, shifting in my seat, suddenly wanting a scalding hot shower.

  “What do you want?” His gaze grew assessing, sharper. “And don’t tell me nothing. You only come see your daddy when you want something.”

  I contemplated his statement even as I spoke without vetting my words, spurred by a sudden morbid curiosity. “I do want something.”

  For Billy. Do it for Billy. Think of Billy . . . But also, think of yourself.

  “That’s my girl.”

  “But how will I earn it? You can’t hold a knife. What happened to your hands?”

  “Fucking Billy Winston happened to my hands. But I’ll see him rot.”

  Morbid curiosity became something else at the sound of Billy’s name passing his lips. How dare he say Billy’s name.

  Instead of fear, I felt anger, for what he’d done to me, for what he’d done to Billy and all those families. It rose like a tidal wave, washing away every trepidation and worry. I was a warrior of justice. I rode on the wings of righteousness. I would destroy this man. I would protect and keep Billy safe. And yes, I would do it for Billy.

  But I would also do it for myself. For all the little Scarlets out there, abused and neglected and so terribly afraid. I would do it for the girl I’d been. The girl who’d been content to merely survive, who didn’t dare dream or hope for more. I would do it for her. I would do it for a future free of fear.

  Think of Scarlet.

  Something about the shift in my expression perplexed him. His gaze darted over me, confusion behind his eyes.

  Now was the time. Do it now.

  “What? Why would you do that? What on earth possessed you to cut your own hands?” I asked loud enough for Agent Nelson to hear.

  He started to lean forward but then stopped himself as the phone slipped slightly from his shoulder. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he snarled, clearly distracted and frustrated by his inability to hold the phone.

  “To get revenge on Darrell?” I paused, as though thinking. “That makes no sense. How would cutting your own hands get revenge on Darrell?”

  Razor stared at me, his lips parted slightly like he was uncertain what was happening or what I’d just said. I stared at him, pretending to hang on his every word. I needed his mouth to move. It didn’t matter what he said, I just needed him to speak.

  And then he did. “Darrell Winston’s son is the reason I can’t hold this phone right now—”

  For Scarlet.

  “You held it between your knees?” I made a horrified face. “You hate Darrell Winston so much, you’d maim yourself just to frame his son?”

  He blinked, plainly bewildered and looking at me like I’d lost my marbles. But then in the very next instant my father’s eyes widened with realization. I watched as it all clicked into place for him, what I was doing, why I was there, and satisfaction beat like a drum in my chest.

  That’s right, motherfucker. Game over.

  “You bitch.” His insult was more breath than sound as his shocked eyes moved over me, like I was a stranger, or like he was seeing me for the first time.

  My mouth curved, a smile of gratification only he would be able to see. “I wish you hadn’t told me this. I have no choice but to tell the FBI the truth about what you did to yourself. I can’t be an accomplice in your attempts to frame an innocent man.”

  My father exploded, launching from his seat. Despite the fact that he was on the other side of the glass and shackled, I flinched back, my heart jumping to my throat and taking off like a frightened rabbit. The way he looked at me, like a wild animal, murder in his eyes, I knew I’d never forget it. And he threw himself against the glass over and over, spitting as he screamed, telling me he was going to kill me, until two guards hustled in and attempted to restrain him.

  His enraged shouts could be heard through the phone I still had pressed to my ear. So I hung it up. I stood. I turned away. I walked back to the black metal door on wobbly legs, allowing my steps to falter when I caught sight of Agent Nelson standing there, her arms crossed.

  “Anything you want to share with the FBI, Ms. McClure? Before you head to your concert?”

  I walked past her and into the hall, leaning against the wall for support and flinching again as the buzzing sound filled the air followed by a heavy, hopefully impenetrable door being closed.

  I can’t believe I just did that.

  “Do you need a minute?” She appeared at my elbow, her arms still crossed. “We can take you back to our field office if you don’t want to talk here.”

  Lifting a shaking hand to my forehead, I didn’t have to pretend to be rattled. “He—he said he cut his own hands to frame Darrell Winston’s son. But, I swear, that’s all he said. I don’t even know why he told me.”

  The Agent’s perceptive gaze moved over me, her features unreadable. “Is this your official statement? Would you be willing to sign an affidavit?”

  I hesitated, hoping I looked torn and knowing I still looked scared. Obviously, I wanted to make an official statement, the official statement was the entire point of this. But Cletus told me it might raise suspicion if I seemed too willing to go on record. Thus, the hesitation.

  My heart was out of control. I closed my eyes but then quickly opened them again when an image of my father flashed through my mind—demented, homicidal. Right after I leave this place, I’m calling my therapist.

  “Ms. McClure, it’s either here or at the FBI office. Your choice.”

  “I have to make an official statement?” I needed to focus. The hard part was over. If I didn’t pull myself together, all of this would be a waste. “But, w-why can’t I just tell you? What if the—what if people find out I ratted on my father?” Hopefully this was enough hesitating because I didn’t think I had it in me to keep this up much longer.

  Agent Nelson traded a look with someone over my shoulder. The other agents. I’d forgotten for a moment they were still present, and I sent a prayer upward. Please God, if this works, I will never lie about anything ever again.

  “After what we all just overheard, you will have to make an official statement. But we can petition the court to seal your identity,” she said judiciously. “I’m sorry, but that’s the best we can offer.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  *Billy*

  “Accepting help is its own kind of strength.”

  Kiera Cass, Happily Ever After

  “Don’t freak out.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at Cletus, somewhat surprised to find him hovering in the doorway to my room.

  “Oh. You’re speaking to me again?” Checking my phone, I saw I had two hours until my next call. I wasn’t looking forward to it. Karl, the incompetent campaign liaison, had found something new to panic over and wanted to talk.

  Standing from my chair, I crossed my arms and leaned back against the desk. “I already apologized to Jenn.”

  Ever since I returned to the villa from Venice yesterday, Cletus had been pointedly avoiding me. I suspected this was for a few reasons. One, Scarlet wasn’t with me. Two, we’d left the restaurant in Venice without eat
ing the dessert Jenn had prepared. Of the two, my brother probably considered the latter a bigger sin.

  He was more fanatical about his wife’s desserts than he was about his own homemade boar sausage. To put this into perspective, I once turned down a second helping of sausage and a priest appeared at our door the next day, ready to conduct an exorcism on the demon that had obviously taken possession of my soul.

  “When was I not speaking to you?” Hands shoved in his pockets, he slowly descended the two stairs into my room. “I’ve just been busy is all.”

  “Right.” Studying my brother, I took note of how his attention seemed to be pointed everywhere but me, a telltale sign he was feeling uneasy.

  “This is a nice room.” He dragged a finger along the top of my dresser. He inspected his finger. “You should dust.”

  “You’ve been in this room before. What’s on your mind, Cletus?” I’d spent most of yesterday before returning to the villa wandering around Florence, taking in the sights on my own and thinking through things. I especially thought about that moment right after we’d made love in Venice when Scarlet had said she’d be my wife.

  Which was why, when I found myself at the Ponte Vecchio, a block of jewelry stores bridging the Arno, I bought us rings. At the very least, even if she turned me down, Scarlet would learn that I never bluff.

  Clearing his throat, Cletus returned his hand to his pocket and rocked back and forth on his feet, sneaking a quick peek at me. “So, I may have done something—or agreed to something—that has me fixating, as it were.”

  “Fixating as in frustrated? Or fixating as in anxious?”

  “Anxious.” He frowned, looking anxious. “I don’t regret it, and I trust in time you’ll see it was the right decision for all involved, but—uh . . .”

  I waited for him to continue. Cletus’s propensity to fixate wasn’t always a reason to worry. Sometimes he fixated on blueberries. Sometimes he fixated on the alarming lack of small spoons in the kitchen at the big house. On the other hand, sometimes he fixated on plotting the downfall of criminal organizations.