Jaden

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Jaden Page 21

by Tijan


  I looked over at Corrigan. His hand was gripping his cup tightly. His face was an unreadable mask, but I had a feeling he was going through the same torment as I was.

  Bryce sighed. It was so soft. “I want to get back there. When I start training again, I’m going to go and do that world, but I’ll miss you guys. Corrigan, you’ll go back to your fraternity and you’ll kick ass. Sheldon, you’ll,” he quieted, seeing my tears. He choked out hoarsely, “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  I ignored the tears and reached for my cup. “What tears? There are no tears.” One dripped off my chin to my hand. I ignored it and raised an eyebrow. “I say we put off the future and just be here tonight. Let’s get rip-roaring drunk, but let’s all promise each other one thing about tonight.”

  I held my cup in the middle of the air again. I was calling for one more salute, and then the emotional talk was done. I couldn’t handle any more.

  Corrigan and Bryce held theirs up, touching mine. They were waiting. I was going to say something meaningful, deeply profound.

  Then I grinned. “Can we all promise that none of us ends up marrying a biker from in here?”

  Relieved grins appeared, and they saluted me with their drinks.

  “Will do.”

  Bryce laughed. “No bikers allowed.”

  “And on that note, here are your appetizers, sweetums.” The waitress arrived with a tray. Another girl was with her. After they put all the plates on the table and collected the empty pitcher, we heard from behind us, “Well. Hell. My boys told me some rich pricks were here. They ordered all this booze and food right away. I was coming over to either warn you off or hustle you myself, but damn.”

  We turned around and saw a blast from our past. Hoodum stood grinning, shaking his head, as he took us all in. Wearing a black leather jacket and pants that rode low on his hips, Hoodum was grinning from ear to ear.

  He’d always been Corrigan’s local criminal friend. He had helped us a couple times; the last time was when he installed my security system. Even though that had only been months ago, there was something different about him.

  No.

  I got it then as he clasped Corrigan in a hug, then patted Bryce’s shoulder. He even gave me a hug before he pulled up a stool and signaled for a couple of his friends to come over, introducing them to Corrigan and Bryce.

  As everyone was shaking hands, I knew this was the right place to be. Hoodum hadn’t changed. We had. Bryce, Corrigan, and I. Somehow, through everything, the three of us had evolved. I had no idea into what, but it felt right. It had gotten us over our slump, whatever it had been, and it was like old times. Bryce, Corrigan, and I were the old trio. We were the same idiots who had been handcuffed together as part of an assignment from our school counselor.

  We were that again.

  I met Bryce’s gaze, and I nodded, trying to say thank you. He nodded back, and then I shut it off—all the seriousness, the bittersweet memories flooding in, the fear that I’d lose this family again. It was all shut off. As Corrigan and Hoodum started telling us a story, where Corrigan tried stealing one of his cars before he realized it was Hoodum’s, I grabbed my beer and reached for a wing.

  I had no idea how it happened, what exactly had happened, but I wasn’t so scared.

  We were going to be fine.

  I felt it in my gut.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  We were drunk.

  We had moved our party outside of the bar. I didn’t know what we were waiting for, but we were waiting for something. Then Corrigan laughed and tripped over his own feet. He stumbled down, and would’ve face-planted if his newfound friend hadn’t grabbed him and pulled him back to his feet. “Whoa man, Rick.” Corrigan squinted up at his friend. “You look like Rick Schroder. Has anyone ever told you that? Are you related at all?”

  The guy had a long black beard with a mustache covering half of his face. What hair he had on top of his head was covered by a dark stocking hat, and his eyes were brown. The biker was over six feet and probably around three hundred pounds.

  I would’ve burst out laughing, but my stomach had been doing somersaults for the last hour. Bryce leaned next to me and breathed on me, “I think Corrigan has beer goggles on, don’t you?”

  I wrinkled my nose. A wave of cheesy fries emanated from him, and it was making the ones resting in my stomach unhappy. I felt a gurgling sensation in there and groaned. Not good. I was going to hurl.

  “Sheldon?”

  I held up a hand. “Hold on.”

  Wait for it. My stomach had moved from somersaults to the Cirque de Soleil.

  “Hey.” He poked me on the shoulder.

  “Hold on.”

  I turned from him and bent over. Just get ready. I knew it was coming. Then I opened my mouth and assumed the throwing-up stance. Feet apart. Knees bent. Hands on hips and . . . nothing.

  “No. Rick Schroder.” Corrigan’s voice rose. “You don’t know who Rick Schroder is? NYPD Blue. Silver Spoons. He was on 24, too. Nothing? For real?”

  I groaned and tried to drown out their conversation. It wasn’t helping.

  “Corrigan.”

  Bryce decided to join in.

  “—baby blue eyes. Blond hair. He’s a good-looking guy.” Such disbelief. “Still nothing? Wow, man. You have the same name and everything. Rick. You’re both Rick.”

  “My last name’s Bellarke.” The guy didn’t seem too happy to be having that conversation.

  “Corrigan.”

  I grimaced and braced a hand against the wall beside me. It was drumming up, ready to spout out of me—then a deep and sober voice said by my head, “Raimler, your girl’s going to hurl.”

  Bryce exclaimed, “Thank you. I was trying for the last hour.”

  “Huh?”

  His shoes moved closer to me, and I recognized those boots. It was Hoodum, Corrigan’s other best friend. He said again, “Jeneve. She’s going to hurl.”

  “Oh, man,” Rick Schroder said. “Candy’s going to be pissed. She can’t hurl on the pavement. She won’t let us in tomorrow.”

  Hoodum said, “Raimler, you need to call a cab.”

  Corrigan made an exasperated sound. “I would, but I can’t find my phone.”

  “It’s in your hand.”

  “Oh.”

  I waved a hand, trying to get their attention. We didn’t need a cab. We needed Denton. He’d send a car. All those thoughts were flashing through my mind, but I couldn’t get them out. The puke was blocking my passages.

  I groaned again, even drunk, I knew that made no sense.

  Suddenly, instead of the parking lot posts above us, there was a burst of flashing blue, red, and white lights.

  “Shit, man.”

  Hoodum grunted, moving away from my head. “They could be here for anyone.”

  “You guys are fun, but we’re out of here.” That was Rick Schroder. He was abandoning us.

  Corrigan said, “You and me, Rick. Shake and bake. Shake . . .”

  The guy was gone.

  Bryce said, “I’ll bake with you any day.”

  A new grumbling started at the idea of baking.

  Then Officer Patterson’s voice drifted over my head. “You guys are wasted.”

  I could just imagine her disapproving stance. Hands on her hips and her eyebrows lowered, her mouth turned down from disappointment.

  Corrigan snorted. “Nothing illegal about that. We’re all twenty-one. And we’re not driving.”

  Another cop joined the conversation. I still couldn’t look. If I moved an inch, I’d be spewing. That second person asked, “Why are you guys at this bar?”

  “Didn’t want to deal with people recognizing us.”

  “Well. I guess. Anyone at this bar really wouldn’t give a flying fuck who you are.”

  “Come on, Sheldon.” Officer Patterson, Sheila, tapped my arm. “Look up. It’ll come when it’s going to come. We need you guys down at the police station.”

  Crap. They were there
for us. My one thought was, damn, Ritt. He had told on us and now we were being arrested for whatever we did to him. Interrogation. Torture. I had stabbed him. No, assault. I was going back to the slammer.

  But then Sheila tilted my head up and said, “We found Guadalupe.”

  “What?” Bryce sounded sober, all of a sudden. “You found her?”

  Regret flashed in Sheila’s eyes, but she masked it before turning to him. “We need you guys to come to the station. We have some more questions, and then we’ll fill you in on everything.”

  “Oh.”

  “This way, Mr. Scout.” Another cop indicated the second squad car—whoa, there were three cop cars here—and he followed to sit in the backseat. Corrigan went with him.

  “Sheldon.” Sheila indicated her car.

  She started to move away, but I grabbed her arm.

  She looked back.

  “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  The regret came back, but she didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. I saw it and I glanced to where Bryce was waiting, staring at me from his seat with a confused expression. Corrigan had his eyes closed, like he was trying to sleep.

  I grunted. He probably was.

  “Come on, Sheldon.” Sheila softened her voice. “We can go over everything at the station. We came to get you for your safety right now. You can get your car tomorrow, when you’re sober.”

  “What?”

  “At the station. Come on.” She walked over and opened the back door. Tapping it, she added, “I promise. You’ll be told everything, but . . . it’s over.”

  It was over.

  I stood there, rooted to the spot. She couldn’t mean . . .

  She said it again, “It’s over, Sheldon. We know who killed Grace.”

  My body moved on automatic pilot. They did? But Guadalupe was dead? When I got into the car, and she shut the door, I did what Corrigan had done. I closed my eyes, and I waited out the car ride. She said they knew who killed Grace—I’d wait. I wanted to sober up and be clear-headed to hear everything.

  I had to.

  For her.

  When we got to the station, all three of us were taken into the same interview room, and we were given coffee, lots and lots of coffee. Bryce asked if we knew anything, but I didn’t answer. Corrigan didn’t know anything, and he seemed to be the only one undisturbed. Even before the first wave of coffee, he laid his head down on the table, and his deep breathing told us he’d fallen asleep seconds later.

  I was jealous.

  Watching him, sleeping now so soundly, I wanted to evade my tension, but I couldn’t. Once Sheila had said Grace’s name, I felt her with me. She was haunting me again, hovering all around me. My chest felt tight. I wanted to believe they had found her killer. I wanted to, so badly, but until I heard everything, only then could I let her go.

  After the fourth cup of black coffee, Officer Sheila came in with the other two defectives who had arrested me. At my quizzical look, Sheila explained, “They brought me in. You tend to be more cooperative if I’m in the fold, so here I am.” Then she folded her arms over her chest and leaned against the far wall. To the female defective, she said, “I gave my two bits. It’s your show now.”

  “Thanks for that.”

  “Any time.” Sheila lifted her chin in a defiant gesture.

  I was skirting back and forth. There was a power struggle somewhere or a disagreement between the two, but I held my tongue. I’d demand to know later, if I wasn’t satisfied with what they were going to say.

  Bryce leaned forward. “Is Guadalupe okay?”

  I cast a sideways look at him.

  He noticed and sighed. “I didn’t love her, but I did care about her at one time.”

  I was too tired, still too inebriated, and too beyond the point of caring to care. I grinned to myself. That made no sense either, but I said, “I know, but if she killed Grace, I’m going to be happy she’s dead.”

  Sheila coughed.

  I amended, “If she’s dead. If.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Do you already know?”

  “She doesn’t.” The female defective took a seat across from us. The male sat beside her, and both shared a look. I didn’t know what passed between them, and I was beyond caring about that, too.

  I said, “Just fucking tell us.”

  The female took a breath, then started, so damn gently, “I’ll start with the good news because, to be honest with you, there’s not a whole lot of it. I have good news, then bad news, and even worse news after that, but yes, the good news is that Guadalupe did not kill Grace.”

  “Oh, thank god.” Bryce slumped down in his seat.

  I waited, still tense, and I closed my eyes, knowing what was coming next.

  “But the bad news is that Guadalupe is dead.”

  She waited.

  I waited.

  And there was complete silence.

  She had been with Bryce. She had manipulated him, tried to control him, and she had tried to destroy me, but she’d been a person that he cared about once upon a time. And she was dead now.

  There was still no sound from Bryce, and I looked up. He was staring at the table, his shoulders hunched forward, his hands spread out so his palms were flat, and the only word I could use to describe him was defeated.

  Then he turned to me, and I saw it—one more death. Another person had died. He asked, so simply, “When is it going to end?”

  I reached out for him, and soon he was in my arms. He didn’t cry. I didn’t feel it in his body, but he wrapped his arms tightly around me, and he buried his head into my shoulder. The defeat wasn’t just about Guadalupe. It was about Bailey. Leisha. Grace. Now Guadalupe. Feeling tears at the corner of my eyes, I blinked to push them away. If I cried, I wasn’t the strong one, and that was my job for Bryce now.

  He was hurting. I would be here for him.

  Then I felt a hand on my other side and looked over. Corrigan had heard. A deep sorrow was in his eyes, but he didn’t say a word. He only touched me to show he was there. I nodded, thankful, then continued to hold Bryce.

  The female defective murmured, breaking the silence, “Maria Ramirez killed her. She’s the one we think killed Grace as well.”

  “What?” Bryce pulled back, his voice gruff, there was so much emotion being suppressed there. “Maria?”

  Sheila stepped closer to the table now. “Yes, Maria. We brought in your old counselor, Miss Connors, if you’d like more explanation, but we believe Maria was Guadalupe’s stalker.”

  “Stalker? I’m not following.”

  Sheila nudged the male detective on the shoulder and gestured for him to stand. As he did, she slid into his seat and was across from us now. Leaning forward, she placed her hands on the table. They were open, her palms pointing toward us.

  I don’t know why that movement was important, but it was. She wasn’t closed off to us. She was there. She was present with us. She was open to us. She was trying to help us.

  She said further, and Bryce pulled away to sit back up, “Maria was obsessed with Guadalupe. You know this. Everyone does. It was very well documented the lengths she would go for her and like the text messages that you found on her phone, she’s the one who killed Grace Barton. We now have further proof. They were at the hospital. They overheard that Grace was confessing about being the one who had shoved Sheldon into the glass table. That gave them information and also a motive. They decided together to frame Sheldon, and they did it, because they thought she would go away, and you, Bryce, would return to Guadalupe. That’s her motive for the first death.”

  I flinched at that term. ‘First death.’ It was said so coldly and . . . like a cop would say. Detached. But I knew that wasn’t true. Sheila was bracing him for the rest of it. Grace was dead. We all knew that, now onto the next death and the next blow.

  “The night you guys went to Guadalupe’s hotel room, she called the police to her room. She pressed charges against Maria. She wanted a restraining order against h
er.”

  “Why?”

  That one word from him sounded so bleak.

  “She said they fought after Sheldon’s press conference. And there was a red mark on her cheek, so we arrested Maria, and a restraining order was set into place. However, we don’t think that was the real reason she wanted charges brought up against her assistant. We think it was her first step in distancing herself from Maria. We think Guadalupe knew there was going to be blowback toward her. Sheldon’s press conference worked like magic. People were becoming more sympathetic to her, but people were going to analyze us more and she knew that eventually we’d start asking more questions. We would get to them, eventually. That’s what we think happened; why she called, but all we know for certain is that there had been a fight. The hotel staff confirmed that. They were called with complaints about yelling and what sounded like a physical altercation.”

  “Shit,” Corrigan breathed out. He shook his head. “This is unreal, being told this.” He glanced to me.

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I was holding onto Bryce’s hand, but I was clinging to my chair with the other. Was it actually real? Was it really done?

  I was scared to hope.

  “We think when Maria realized the object of her obsession was turning on her, she felt rejected, and this sent her into a tailspin of panic and rage. Like I said, Miss Connors is here. She can explain it so much better, but like a lot of stalkers do with their objects of obsession, Maria turned on Guadalupe. If she couldn’t have her, no one could. Many stalkers end up killing, or attempting to kill, the person they were obsessed with. We found her body this morning in a warehouse.”

  Another warehouse. The irony wasn’t lost on us, considering what we’d been doing hours earlier.

  Bryce lowered his head. Again, like this whole time, he didn’t say anything, but he was taking shallow breaths, and I knew he was trying to calm himself. Either that or he was just trying to breathe.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Keep repeating and maybe something would make sense at the end? Sometimes that happened. Once I calmed down, I understood things, but that wasn’t going to happen here.

  Guadalupe was dead, and he couldn’t tune out, then come back in and hope it was a nightmare. She was gone.

 

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