My Cruel Salvation

by J. Kenner

  “It’s news.” Franklin practically growls the word.

  “It’s gossip,” I retort, my body hot with fury.

  His eyes narrow, and I hold up my hand. “I know,” I say. “I’m fired.” I turn to Roger, who looks miserable. “I’m sorry if I disappointed you.”

  “Never,” he says.

  I swallow, my mouth dry as I look him in the eye. “Yeah, well, I wish I could say the same.”

  He clears his throat. “Come on. I’ll walk you to out.”

  “I can walk myself.”

  “It’s the right decision,” Franklin says as I reach the door.

  I pause and turn back. “Maybe so. But my decision was the right one, too.” I turn back and exit the office without waiting for a response.

  Roger catches up to me at the elevator.

  “You should have stood up for me,” I say. “You didn’t say a single word. Why the hell didn’t you say anything?” It’s not as if I don’t understand why Franklin fired me, I do. But he lied to Roger, my friend. And yet Roger just stood there and took it. “Why?” I repeat.

  His body seems to slump. “I’m sixty-two and overextended. I can’t afford to lose my job now. It doesn’t make me proud, but it’s the reality I live under.”

  I exhale, then nod. I get it; I do. But at the same time, I can’t help but think about Devlin who’s risked his actual life in Saint’s Angels to try and balance the scales of justice. He’s stuck his neck out time and time again. That’s not something Roger would ever do. Hell, it’s not something most people would do. It doesn’t make them bad people, but it does make Devlin extraordinary.

  I realize I’m actually smiling a little when Roger presses a hand to my shoulder, and I don’t shake it off. “You’re going to be fine, Ellie.”

  Once again, I think about Devlin. I’m not a woman who’d be happy living in the shadow of her man, but I also know that he will always be there for me, ready to reach out and help me over any stumbling blocks I might encounter as I figure out my next step. “I know,” I tell Roger. “I’m going to be just fine.”

  We hug, and I promise to stay in touch. I mean it, too. Maybe I should be angrier that he’s siding so easily with Franklin, but I’m not. I get why I was fired and why Roger toed the party line.

  And at the end of the day, as much as I love my job, I love Devlin more. Now, I just need to figure out what to do with my slightly tarnished journalism degree.

  It’s something I’m thinking about as I load my few personal things into a cardboard box. It’s Sunday, and so there’s only a few people around, a fact for which I’m grateful. I like all my co-workers, but I never really bonded with anyone.

  The closest I came to having an actual professional relationship with was with Corbin Dailey, and that was based on mutual dislike.

  Even so, I glance over at his desk and realize that I’m feeling a little melancholy. He might have been my arch nemesis, but he’d helped out where it counted. And the truth is he’s a damn good reporter.

  I head over to his desk, planning to leave a note, when I hear his smooth voice from across the room. “Snooping for a lead? Damn, Holmes, I never thought you’d stoop so low.”

  I look up, prepared to defend myself, only to see he’s grinning. Strangely, I find myself grinning back.

  “Let me guess. The revelation that Saint’s the son of the world’s biggest a-hole drove you from him, and now you’re moving back to New York to be a pain in my ass.”

  “Not exactly.”

  He comes closer and leans against the desk. He’s got white-blonde hair and pale blue eyes that are focused on me like two lasers. After a moment, he clears his throat. “Listen, I really am sorry about what happened. He seems like a good guy. Hell of a thing to get slapped with on his big night.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It was.” I glance around, then peer under his desk before rising up with a shrug.

  “What was all that?”

  “Just wondering what rabbit hole I fell down. I’m feeling a little like Alice.”

  He shrugs. “Nah. I just—oh, fuck. Franklin cut you loose, didn’t he? The prick.”

  Tears sting my eyes, and I want to melt into the floor. “Yeah.” My voice sounds raw and I hate—hate—that it’s Corbin who’s seeing me like this.

  “I’m really sorry,” he says, with an unfamiliar gentleness.

  I sniffle and reach for a tissue. “It would have been nice if you’d told me years ago that you weren’t a complete dick, you know that, right?”

  A slow grin spreads across his face. “Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” He nods to my box filled with papers and knickknacks. “Come on, I’ll carry that down for you.”

  “Thanks,” I say, then fall in step beside him.

  “So what now?” he asks.

  “Now I go back to California. I was already planning to stay out there anyway.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Soon. We were planning to stay at least a week, but what with the media explosion we need to get back as soon as I can find a realtor to handle a sublet. But after that, we’re out of here.”

  “Sorry you’re not getting your New York vacation with your man.”

  I pause on the sidewalk outside The Spall’s building. “Why are you being so nice?”

  “Hey, I may be a jerk, but I’m not an asshole. You’re a solid reporter, even if you did manage to snag most of the good stories because Roger had a hard-on for you.”

  “He did not!”

  He waves it away. “Oh, please. Why wouldn’t he? I’m not blaming the guy. You’re hot in that bitchy nerd-girl sort of way.”

  “I’m starting to feel like we’re getting back to normal here. Not having asshole Corbin around was making me feel off-center.”

  He chuckles. “Point is, I hate it when talent gets fucked over. And they’re fucking you over big time. Ergo, the nice. That and I wanted to ask you about your apartment.”

  I pause on the sidewalk, my arms crossed. “You are not being nice to me because you want a sublet.”

  He tilts his head as he shrugs. “Might be. Or you might just be seeing a whole new side of me.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t believe you had me going like that,” I say as I continue down the sidewalk. “For a moment there, I thought there might be one decent bone in your body.”

  “Oh, I have one,” he says, with the kind of leer in his voice that has me rolling my eyes and fighting a laugh. “But I don’t think Devlin Saint would like me showing it to you.”

  “Devlin’s not the only one,” I mutter.

  He scoffs, then stops. “Listen, Holmes, I know we’ve had our run-ins, but you’re a solid reporter. For that, I’ll always give you props. Your place is a short walk from work, and mine’s forty-five minutes on the subway. So if you’re moving on, I’d appreciate a good word with your landlord. Even better if I can take over your lease. You told me once what your rent is. Would’ve kicked my ass in Phoenix, but in Manhattan, it’s a pretty sweet deal.”

  “I never knew you were from Arizona.”

  “Never knew I could be civil, either. It’s a wild and wacky world out there.”

  I reach to take the box from him. “That it is.”

  “So?”

  “It’s yours.” I probably shouldn’t give in so quickly, but weirdly Corbin has been the brightest spot on my last day at The Spall, and that’s something I never would have guessed.

  “That means you’ll put in a good word?”

  “That means I’ll introduce you to the owner. And I can pretty much guarantee he’ll do as I ask.”

  I catch his eye and shrug.

  It takes him a second, then he barks out a laugh. “You’re shitting me. Saint owns your building?”

  “One of life’s weirder coincidences,” I tell him, because I’m sure as hell not telling him the real truth. “Not the only weird thing, come to that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I frown, thinking of R
oger. “Sometimes people you count on let you down.” I meet his eyes. “And sometimes other people surprise you.”

  His brows rise. “Is that a fact?”

  I shrug. “Don’t make a thing of it. And come on. We can finalize this now.”

  As advertised, it’s not a long walk, and Corbin takes the box back, now in full gentleman mode.

  When we get to the apartment, I open the door and gesture for him to follow. Then I stop dead in front of him, the box banging into my back as Corbin stumbles against me.

  I barely notice. All I see is Devlin slowly lowering the phone, his expression tight, his eyes lost.

  “Devlin?” I hurry to his side, Corbin forgotten. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s Tracy,” Devlin says. “She’s dead.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Before…

  Alejandro looked at the rounded slab of gray granite through tear-filled eyes. Aurelia Espinoza.

  That’s all it said. Just her name and the years she’d been alive. Twenty-three in total.

  She’d been his stepmom since he was nine. He was fourteen now. And she was dead.

  Nothing on the stone said that she’d been anyone’s daughter. Nothing said she’d been anyone’s wife. Nothing said she’d been anyone’s mother. Or stepmother, anyway.

  The gravestone didn’t even say Lopez. His prick of a father wouldn’t even give her that. Not in life, not in death. He’d married her. He’d fucked her. He’d used her and beaten her, but since she didn’t give him another son, he hadn’t claimed her.

  In the end, he killed her. Beaten her to death in the kitchen because she’d made his breakfast wrong.

  Not that anyone would say that out loud, but everyone knew. The reality was especially hard for Alex to bear. He should have stayed home that morning. He knew his father was in a mood, and he’d wanted to get out of the house. He’d skipped breakfast and gone to the range. He’d fired off five clips before Marta, the housekeeper, came to tell him that his father had sent for him. Aurelia was dead, Marta had told him, her eyes wide and frightened. It was, she’d said, a terrible accident.

  Accident.

  What a stinking load of crap.

  The official word was that she’d fallen and hit her head. But anyone who believed that had shit for brains.

  Daniel Lopez had a temper. He was The Wolf, after all. And The Wolf had certain expectations. His woman had to act a certain way. His lieutenants had to act a certain way.

  And his son damn sure had to act a certain way.

  Alex felt the burn on his cheek where his father had slapped him just that morning. Called him a pussy for wanting to come to Aurelia’s grave. And he felt the ache in his ribs where his father had fractured one a few months ago when he’d thrown Alex to the ground and kicked the shit out of him for talking back.

  His father had said his shot wasn’t good enough, but Alex had hit the painted eye on that fucking target with twelve of the thirteen rounds in his pistol. The target was dead, and he’d told his father so. And earned a beating in the process.

  He’d almost fought back. But he’d only been thirteen then, one month shy of his birthday. He was strong for his age, he knew that. But he was still smaller than The Wolf. Even at fourteen, he wasn’t quite ready.

  But he was getting close. Bigger. Stronger. And his marksmanship was dead on. And he was working to make it even better.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” he told Aurelia now. “Someday, I promise I will.”

  “Big promise for a little boy.”

  Alex turned and saw Marco Giatti strolling toward him, his dark black hair slicked back from his forehead. He was grinning. Unlike The Wolf, Marco grinned a lot. And he talked to Alex like a man, even when he called him boy. Told him stories about his life on the East Coast. Stories that reminded Alex that there were other places. Other lives.

  “I’m not a little boy,” Alex said.

  “No, you’re not. Wish you were. Growing up too fast. But you’re still just a cugine. One more soldier in the ranks. You ain’t the don yet, kid.”

  And he never wanted to be. He didn’t say that, though. Not even to Marco. Instead, he just lifted his chin. “I’m almost fifteen.”

  “And still young enough to be a damn fool.”

  “Am not.” He felt like an idiot as soon as he said the words.

  “You think it’s going to go well if your father learns you came out here? That you got all boo-hoo weepy for his goomah?”

  “She wasn’t. She was his wife.”

  “And you’re crying for her. Sentimental nonsense. You know he’ll think so. You think he won’t tell you as much with his fists if he finds you out here?”

  Alex shrugged, feeling sulky. Marco was right. “Why are you here?”

  “Because I like you, boy-o. And I don’t want to see you roughed up because you got on the wrong side of The Wolf’s temper.”

  “You shouldn’t stay stuff like that.” Fear cut though him. Alex liked Marco. Liked him a lot. He didn’t want him gone, disappeared like some of his father’s other men.

  “Yeah, well if you won’t tell on me, I won’t tell on you.”

  Alex shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded. “I won’t.”

  For a moment, they both stood in silence. Then Marco said, “She was a sweet girl who grew up into a kind woman. She deserved better.”

  Alex tilted his head, studying the older man. Beside him, Marco shrugged. “Just saying the truth in front of you and Aurelia and God. But it stays here, right? Just between us.”

  “Just between us,” Alex said. He drew in a breath. “I meant what I said. I didn’t protect her from him because I couldn’t. But someday, I’ll avenge her.”

  “And I meant what I said,” Marco retorted. “That’s a big promise to make. But I hope it’s one you can keep.” He nodded at the grave. “Say your goodbyes and get home before someone sees you. And for the record, I wasn’t ever here.”

  “Okay,” Alex said. As he watched Marco walk away, he saw someone else standing behind a nearby gravestone. A short, heavyset boy he recognized immediately—Manuel Espinoza. Manny. Aurelia’s brother.

  He waited, expecting Manny to come over, but the boy just turned and walked the opposite direction. Alex frowned, but brushed it off. Manny had always been a strange kid, and he seemed to have gotten stranger after Aurelia’s death. Not that Alex saw him much. After Aurelia died, The Wolf had sent Manny away to live with one of his second cousins, a quiet, skinny man named Romeo Duarte who ran “errands” with Joseph Blackstone, an ass-kissing creep who was also one of the up-and-comers in The Wolf’s operation.

  Manny had cried and cried, but Alex would have given anything to move out of his father’s house. Manny didn’t have a clue that he’d been blessed with the only good thing that came from Aurelia’s death.

  With a sigh, he blinked away the tears that threatened as he once again looked at Aurelia’s grave. “Goodbye,” he whispered, then added, “I’ll keep my promise.”

  He would never speak of it again, but Alex knew he would always remember that promise. One he’d silently made to all the women in his father’s life. His own mother. The wives who would come after Aurelia. The girlfriends, too. Because The Wolf would devour them all.

  His father thought there was no price for hurting women and scaring children.

  But there was.

  And now that Alex was no longer a child, he relished the day when he could teach his father that lesson in person.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The present…

  Devlin stood in the condo unit’s entrance hall, his body numb. It was a crime scene now. No longer Tracy’s home. Now it was the place she’d died.

  The place where she’d been murdered.

  And, dammit, the place where Ellie had been threatened.

  He realized his hands were clenched at his sides and forced himself to relax. This wasn’t a time for emotion—that could come later. Right now, he needed to assess
the situation. To learn what he could.

  And to start to plan his next steps.

  Centered again, he looked down at the chalk outline in the tiled entryway. Adhesive tags on the wall identified the single bullet’s impact. It had gone through her skull, killed her instantly, then lodged in the wall. The ballistics team had retrieved it last night.

  They’d also retrieved Tracy’s eye. It had been gouged out after she was dead, then placed in a small gift box by the sick fuck who’d killed her.

  An eye for an eye.

  Now, the entire Laguna Cortez police force was working round the clock to get to the bottom of the murder.

  Devlin drew in a breath, then moved toward the living room where Ellie’s friend, Detective Lamar Gage, sat tense beside her. A large man who had once been a child star, he tended to carry himself with confidence, filling whatever space he occupied. Not today. Today, he seemed lost inside himself, and his dark skin had gone ashen with grief.

  When Devlin and Ellie had arrived less than an hour ago, well after dark, Lamar had been pacing. He’d been on the scene for hours, and he’d still been barking orders, a river of motion churning with manic purpose, as if he’d fall over if he had to stand still. Then he’d seen Ellie, and he’d let the weight of grief bear down on him. He’d collapsed against her. She’d shot Devlin a look filled with infinite pain, then led the detective to the sofa.

  “They were getting serious,” Tamra Danvers, his longtime friend and the DSF’s publicity director, had said, stating what Devlin already knew. Grief lined her face, and the one gray streak in her hair had seemed more pronounced. “He feels helpless.”

  Devlin had only nodded. What more could he say? He felt helpless, too. More, he felt scared. Not an emotion he liked to cop to, but it was the truth. Because how the hell would he survive if that chalk mark had been outlining El’s body?

  He wouldn’t, and as far as Devlin was concerned, that meant that Lamar Gage was one of the strongest men he knew.