by Matt Lincoln
Ramirez and I hadn’t spent a lot of time alone together since the gala, mostly because he avoided me. There was a weird vibe rolling off him—a combination of his usual cold shoulder and his gratefulness over the lead I’d brought him—and it left us both just kind of staring at each other, unsure of where we stood.
“So who is he?” I asked finally and gestured toward the closed door behind Ramirez, hoping to break the ice some.
“Oh, yeah.” Ramirez jerked his thumb at the door, lapsing into a neutral professionalism that we both knew how to navigate. “He’s actually Rose’s second. I don’t know how the hell you managed that.”
“Damien Rose, the head dealer you’re after?” I asked, and Ramirez nodded.
“He told me everything I needed to know in return for a plea bargain. I should be able to wrap this whole thing up soon.”
“Wow, what are the odds?” I replied, astonished.
Ramirez shrugged. “It’s one hell of a coincidence, that’s for sure, but I needed a break, so why look a gift horse in the mouth? Thank you for bringing him in.”
“No problem. It was a team effort.” I smiled at Ramirez.
He didn’t return the expression. “Barrett’s sending people over to pick him up since they’ve got better holding cells down at the precinct. It feels good to have the wheels moving.”
“It certainly does,” I agreed. “I’m here to help if you need me.”
Ramirez nodded noncommittally and started for the stairs, which I was still standing in front of. He gave me a pointed look.
“Oh yeah,” I said, but didn’t move right away. “Listen, Ramirez, while I have you here, there’s something I’ve wanted to talk to you about. That night at the gala, what did Christian Haverford tell you about me?”
“I’ve got to start brainstorming a plan to take down Rose,” Ramirez interrupted and started moving toward me, leaving me no choice but to step out of his way or be mowed down. So I let him pass and watched as he descended the stairs, an uneasy feeling curling in my stomach. I gave him a thirty-second lead and then followed him down, determined to pretend like nothing had happened.
When I stepped off the staircase, Ramirez was at his desk, hyper-focused on whatever was on his screen, and Lex had just appeared from upstairs, a contemplative expression on her face. Graham had disappeared, and I was glad to have her out of our space for a little while.
“Is Cal still downstairs?” I asked Lex as I crossed the floor to join her, and she nodded. “I might have a lead, but we’ll need them to run a search.”
Lex’s eyes widened, and she smiled, hope springing onto her face. She’d barely made it five steps away from the stairs, so she turned right around, and we went down to the lab where Cal was clattering away at the computer.
“Hey, you got a minute?” I asked.
Cal spun their chair around to face us. “I’ve got many minutes. What’s up?”
“I’ve got a couple of names and a phone number for you to run,” I explained, leaning up against the silver table Cal was currently using for storage. “So I may have spied on the marshal just a bit.” I held up my thumb and index finger half an inch apart.
Cal grinned broadly and cracked their gum, stretching out a hand to give me a fist bump.
“You did what?” Lex demanded, her tone caught somewhere between impressed and aghast.
I reached out and tapped my knuckles to Cal’s so they weren’t left hanging. “I brought her a sandwich, and I happened to get a glimpse of her whiteboard,” I explained innocently. “She’s found two people who have ties to Dowell but not Ward, and she’s got Amherst’s old number. I figure that one of them has to know where Dowell’s gone.”
I swiped a pad of paper off Cal's desk, scribbled down the two names and the phone number, and then passed the pad to Cal. Cal scanned the page and then spun to their computer and began to open up a bunch of tabs.
“Why do you think Amherst will know anything?” Lex asked.
“If Dowell did turn on Ward and went to Amherst, then maybe Amherst has kept tabs on him,” I explained. “It’s a long shot, but…”
“But all we’ve got right now are long shots,” Lex finished, and I nodded.
“Give me a couple of hours,” Cal said distractedly as they plugged away at the computer. “I’ll let you know when I’ve got something.”
I wanted to hover and wait in the lab for the results with Cal, but they hated it when we did that, so Lex and I gathered ourselves and left Cal to it, the computer screens throwing shadows across their face.
15
Rachel leaned against her closed front door, all the lights in the hall dark, and listened to the sound of the car engine as Lex, Cal, and Jace drove off. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back until it thumped against the wood. She took one deep breath and then another, trying to fill the gaping hole within her chest, but the air had no substance and simply swirled around that cavern, reminding her just how empty it was.
She kicked off her shoes one by one, losing two inches of height. She dropped her purse by the mat. It tipped over, spilling half its contents across the floor. The clasp hadn’t closed properly. She stared at her jumbled possessions, and her lower lip trembled. She couldn’t bear the sight of the mess. Everything that had happened, and now this. It was too much for her. She couldn’t take it anymore.
Fury lanced through her, overwhelming the bubbling despair, and she kicked at the purse, sending it flying down the hall, leaving a trail of jumbled junk across the floor. She wanted to break things, smash glasses, swing a baseball bat at a mirror or a lamp, but she’d already done all that in the first days of her rage and her pain, and she was running out of things to destroy. It never helped. When the anger left, she was simply hollow, and that was so much worse.
Rachel felt as if her heart was missing, torn out of her chest, crushed under some uncaring boot, and its absence was a sharp pain that tore through her with each breath she took. And to make matters worse, she couldn’t do anything about it. Marshal Graham had banned her from helping her daughter, and the others, well, they tried to hide it, but she could still see it in the way she looked at her. They thought her unstable, dangerous, a liability.
Were they right? Rachel certainly hoped not.
She simply wanted to sleep, but there was something else she needed to do today before she could. She’d promised Jack updates on the case. Though he could just as easily get reports from the police officers watching the safe house, she thought it would be best coming from her, especially if there was bad news. And in this instance, no news was bad news.
Her keys were still in her hand, and she unclenched her fist, staring down at the strips of silver metal, the car fob, and the colorful plastic lanyard Malia had made for her one year at summer camp. Rachel’s chest ached anew to look at it. It was a little uneven, a few of the plaits loose and stuck together with glue, and there was no semblance of a pattern to the colors, but Malia had been so proud of it, beaming her gap-toothed grin when she’d presented it to Rachel.
Rachel clutched the keys to her heart, biting her lip to hold back the wash of tears. It was exhausting, falling apart at any little thing, and it made her feel useless, but she didn’t know how to stop. She knew action would help, but that had been denied her.
She would go speak with Jack. Maybe that would help.
She doubted it.
Rachel left the contents of her purse where they lay, stuffed her feet into a pair of sneakers, and stepped out of her still dark house, locking the door behind her. Her car was parked in the drive, and though it needed gas, she figured she had enough to make it out to the safe house.
She’d had to beg Barrett to tell her where they would stash Jack until the situation with Ward was resolved. Barrett had resisted, saying that the fewer people who knew where Jack was, the safer he’d be, but Rachel had pulled both the family and the rank card and had bullied him into spilling.
The safe house was just outside of town, on
a quiet little farm, maybe a fifty-minute drive from her home. Rachel turned on a podcast to occupy her mind, but after just five minutes, she realized she couldn’t stand the sound of the woman’s voice and had to turn it off. She swapped over to some classical music—Vivaldi, easy on the ears, something she didn’t actually have to listen to but still filled the surrounding space, crafting a shield between her and the dark thoughts constantly percolating beneath the surface of her mind.
She left the city behind, crossing Lake Pontchartrain via one of the long bridges, watching the glittering water spooling out on either side of the concrete. The sun was high overhead, bright and sharp after the vicious storm that had blown in and out of town so quickly. The wind had rattled the windows of the MBLIS office so hard she’d thought the glass would have to break sooner rather than later, but the windows had won the fight in the end, and the storm had moved on, having already forgotten them.
Rachel’s car rumbled as she passed over the end of the bridge and back onto solid land, the city shining in her rearview mirror. She was sad to leave it, though it was only for a short while. She’d meant what she said at the custody hearing. She was ready to make New Orleans her permanent home. It wasn’t just for Malia. She loved her job and her coworkers, and she loved the city itself. How bright and vibrant it was, how diverse, how lively. She’d been searching for just the right fit all her life, and she’d finally found it.
Only to have it torn right out from under her by Ward’s vicious claws. Rachel’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. She would make him pay dearly for this. He could count on that.
The bright day, made brighter by the water that still lingered over everything, held no interest for her. She didn’t see the clear blue sky or the gently rolling hills or the water stretching out on one side, its edges marshy and green. She only had eyes for the road and where it would take her.
Fifty minutes later, the GPS told her to take the next right, and Rachel turned onto a gravel drive that wound its way between two hills. The surrounding fields were soft and green, and she followed the drive for several minutes until a small farmhouse and barn appeared at the end. The barn was painted a bright red that was only slightly faded by the sun, and the house itself was yellow and white with thick bushes ringing the screened-in porch. There were no other cars and no sign of movement on the grounds, even when the quiet growl of her car’s engine should have been within earshot.
Rachel parked and shut off the car. She didn’t climb out right away. She just sat there with her hands wrapped around the steering wheel, watching the idyllic house. She’d lived on a farm once for just a year, staying with an aunt while her parents were somewhere overseas where she couldn’t follow at her young age.
She hadn’t seen Jack since that awful night. The police had spirited him away, all the way out here, and this was the first time she’d mustered up the courage and energy to make the journey out. She knew exactly what Jack would say to her, and she didn’t want to hear it. Couldn’t hear it. Because she feared that it was true.
Rachel forced herself out of the car, focusing on the way the sun shone across her skin and dazzled her eyes. It was warm but couldn’t quite penetrate the cold pall that had draped itself around her the moment she heard Jack’s terror-stricken voice over the phone. She could still hear his words ringing in her ears.
“Rachel. Rachel, she’s gone.”
Rachel shuddered as the memory washed over her, flinging her out of the present moment and right back into all that heart-stopping panic. She’d thought she’d been dying. She thought she was dying now as her pulse raced and her breath rasped along her throat. She slapped her hand against the roof of her car before her legs gave way. The heat soaked into her hand. The plastic was smooth and hard against her palm. She focused on those physical sensations, reminding herself that she was present within her body, standing before a farmhouse, about to speak with her ex-husband.
Rachel settled back into herself as her pulse slowed and her breathing returned to normal bit by bit. There still wasn’t movement from within the farmhouse, and Rachel wondered if Jack was watching her from behind the blinds. Why hadn’t he said anything?
Another stab of panic hit her. What if Ward had gotten to him, too? Even all the way out here?
Rachel rushed for the front door. She pounded her fists against the wood, pounded and pounded and pounded, calling, “Jack? It’s me. It’s Rachel. Open up. Are you there?”
She was shouting. She shouldn’t be shouting. She didn’t want to alert anyone to the presence of the safe house, but who else could be around? They were just about in the middle of nowhere.
“Jack?” she called again, her fear mounting with every moment that passed without an answer.
She gave up her knocking, stepping back from the door, shaking her hands at her side as if that would somehow expel the pent-up energy within her. Jack wasn’t answering. Either he was hurt or missing, or he didn’t want to speak with her—either way, she was getting into that house.
Barrett hadn’t given her a key. She should have demanded one, but she hadn’t thought of it. She stepped off the porch and rounded the side of the house, checking each of the windows as she passed, hoping one might be open. The blinds were drawn across each one, preventing her from seeing inside. She strained her ears, hoping she might hear some sound, some sign of her ex, but there was only the wind against the grass and the chimes hooked to the porch. She made it to the back door and knocked on it as well, yanking open the screen door to get at the solid wood. She tried the knob, but it was locked. Of course, it was locked.
“Jack, open this damn door!” she bellowed, her voice so loud that several birds burst out of the nearby tree. “Or I swear I will kick it down.”
She reared back and raised her knee, glad she was wearing her sneakers and not her heels. She was just about to drive her foot forward and into the door just below the knob, but just before she could, the door swung open, revealing Jack’s haggard face.
Rachel almost fell over, trying to check the forward moment of her foot before she buried it in Jack’s stomach, but she caught herself on the post holding up the little roof overhanging the back door.
Jack looked, in a word, bad. He hadn’t shaved, and his stubble was growing in fast and thick, showing off the gray of his hair. There were deep circles under his eyes, and his wrinkles were like canyons across his face. He was dressed in his usual button-up and vest, but the shirt needed ironing, and there was a smudge of something on the corner of the collar. He stared at her, then stuck his head out the door and checked in either direction to make sure they were alone.
“Rachel, what the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.
Rachel pushed past him into the house, and he folded himself out of the way, shutting the door behind her and twisting the lock.
Rachel rounded on him and jabbed her finger into his chest. “Why didn’t you answer the door?”
“Detective Barrett told me not to answer for anyone,” Jack said defensively, crossing his arms in front of him like a shield.
“Even me?” Rachel said, and he shrugged.
“You shouldn’t be here. What if you led Ward to me?” Anxiety crawled in his voice, and he pulled a slat of the blinds down to take another peek outside.
Rachel rolled her eyes. “We’d know if someone followed us. There are clear lines of sight all around this place. It’d be impossible to follow someone here without being spotted.”
She took a look around the house while Jack continued to peer out the window. It was decorated simply and cheaply but still had a cozy feel to it, and while the appliances weren’t exactly new, they’d still get the job done. The art on the wall was generic, mostly landscapes with a few stylized nautical maps thrown in for good measure. She could see only a few signs of Jack’s presence—a quarter-full mug of tea on the end table by the couch and the shoes tucked neatly by the door.
“Did you find something?” Jack asked as Rachel finished up h
er inspection of the living room. “Is that why you’re here? Did you find Malia?”
Hope made his voice squeak, and he stood in the archway between the living room and the breakfast nook with his hands clasped at his chest. He used to have a tan line from his wedding band, but Rachel noticed that had finally disappeared. If they didn’t have a child together, it would have been like their entire marriage never happened.
Rachel didn’t want to rip the hope from him. She shouldn’t have come here with no good news. This was a mistake, but she couldn’t back out now. She had to tell him something.
“Not exactly,” she said. Each word pained her greatly on the way out. But Jack’s change in expression hurt even more. His hope fell from him like a plane dropping out of the sky, crash landing, spewing sparks and wreckage every which way. Some of it hit her, strips of metal slicing across her cheeks, drawing blood, and she stumbled back. The backs of her legs struck the couch, and she sat down hard, the cushion releasing a puff of air around her.
Jack cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean, not exactly?”
“We thought we had something,” she explained, feeling desperate for… something. She wasn’t sure what. His understanding or his forgiveness, or maybe even his anger, as if that might justify her own, or perhaps she thought she deserved to be yelled at for her failings. “But it was unrelated.”
Jack fell heavily into the armchair and put his head in his hands, gripping his hair tight.
“You mean you’ve found nothing? You have no idea where our baby is?” he asked, pleading with her to say something other than the truth.
Rachel’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her jaw hung open, and she waited for her vocal cords to work. Jack lifted his head to stare at her as the silence stretched, disbelief in his eyes.
“Well?” he demanded, bunching his fists atop his knees. “Say something!”
But Rachel couldn’t. She shook her head. Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn’t want to cry in front of Jack, nevermind that she’d done so a million times before. They’d been strangers for a long time, despite knowing each other so intimately for so long, and there was an accusation in his eyes that she simply couldn’t stand because she already blamed herself enough.