Daring You

by Ketley Allison

  “Yeah,” I say, squinting at the police report I have up on my laptop screen. “But they’re estimating three based on the different heights of the stab wounds, some left-handed, others right-handed…also, there seem to be no restraints used. One must’ve held Tim Delaney back while the other held down Rose, so the third guy could….”

  “We can skip over that for now,” Taryn says quietly.

  “Right,” I say with relief. “Let’s stick to the background facts. Tim was an FBI informant.”

  “Yep.”

  “And the drug cartel he was working undercover for figured out who he was. It’s assumed this attack was for punishment. Retribution. Revenge.”

  “All those fun things.” Taryn sits back, tapping a bright red nail against the edge of her computer. “Turns out, these defendants are disgusting, and we’re representing them.”

  I raise my brows. “Assuming they’re the right ones.”

  Taryn glances over. “You really think there’s a possibility they’re innocent?”

  Ben’s insults have gotten to me, and it’s as if I’m reiterating my point to him when I say, “Only one set of DNA at the scene. They don’t have to be virgin Marys to be considered innocent of this crime or be properly represented.”

  Taryn’s bites her lip like she can’t believe I can be so cavalier, but I pretend I don’t see it. How else does she expect to get ahead in this firm?

  I’m trying to find more, holding up papers and crusting my eyes over by staring at my screen, skimming through the facts and sadly coming across no detailed witness interviews. Just the boy’s, and it’s very short.

  Ryan Delaney, 4 years old, and mute as a mouse.

  At such a young age, it’s hard to imagine he’d have a lot to say even if he were a chatterbox. But I think of Lily and how quickly she’s grasping language at the ripe old age of one-and-a-half. She’s the only baby I can compare him to, since I don’t know children any better than I know cats.

  My mind starts doing funny things at the thought of Lily, injecting her into this crime scene. The image has me blinking rapidly and looking away from my monitor.

  Then I frown.

  “Hey,” I say to Taryn. “Where are pictures of Ryan Delaney?”

  She picks up the stack of photos and flips through them. “Huh. None here. Let me check the database.”

  I do the same, and we both scroll and study our screens, but come up with nothing about the boy. Literally zilch. No photos, no description of any wounds, if he had any…

  “He was found alive, right?” Taryn asks.

  “Yeah. The fire department came just in time to pull him out,” I say. “The report says as much. See, right here.” I spin my laptop around and point. “He was found crouched over his mother’s body, barely breathing due do all the smoke inhalation, but conscious. They saved him. Took him to…SIU Hospital. And from there…jeez, where is everything?”

  “How can we be without that? He’s a key witness,” Taryn murmurs.

  We both look at each other at the same time.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I ask.

  “How long will it be before everyone else figures it out?”

  “Not a lot of time,” I admit. “But so far, we’re first. And we have to do it.”

  “Do you think we can?”

  “If we want a seat at Yang’s table? Yeah, we do.” I set my shoulders. Lick my lips. Take one last look to the bodies of Tim and Rose Delaney. “Where’s Ryan Delaney?”

  “The DA’ll be wondering the same thing,” Taryn whispers. “Everyone’s going to be after this kid, on both sides. He’s what…twenty-six now?”

  “It’s not good enough,” I mutter. “The others will figure this out in ten-point-two seconds. It’s…holy shit.”

  “What?”

  “This is what Yang wants. It’s been his motive this entire time. All hands on deck in trying to track down Ryan Delaney is better than the small cluster of employees the DA has. It’s going to be a frenzy.” I stab the stack of papers I’m holding. “Ryan’s the crucial link. Who knows what he remembers now. He could exonerate our boys.”

  “Or point the finger at them.”

  “A risk we have to take, because you know what?” I lean closer to Taryn. “Yang wants meat. So, what’s better than bringing him human flesh?”

  Taryn smiles. “We’re gonna win this.”

  “Damn right we are,” I say. “Because we’re going to find this witness before anyone else.”

  11

  Ben

  It’s Sunday morning and I’m at the gym. In college, getting up at 5 a.m. was a bonkers idea. In high school, just plain insanity. But, I coached myself into it, with the help of my pops, especially considering words like “scout,” and “NFL draft” were being thrown around like footballs speeding past my ears since I was thirteen.

  At the ripe old age of twenty-six, it’s now a habit. Wake up at 4, chug a cup of coffee from an extravagance I stole from Ash—a Nespresso machine—that he hasn’t noticed I’ve taken from his apartment, jam in my beats, and jog around the deserted, barely lit, TriBeCa neighborhood. No tiny dogs to jump over, no strollers to narrowly avoid hip-checking, no women in heels getting stuck in subway grates…

  —Astor—

  —and no damn traffic jams clogging up intersections and serving as a distraction.

  I turn up the volume on my buddy Easton’s latest single, slamming my feet down with each thump of bass, determined to forget how to pronounce her goddamned name and the feelings that come with it.

  I’ll run myself ragged, pound the pavement until there are dents, if it means forgetting Astor.

  She’s in danger.

  No she ain’t. She’s the most dogged, stubborn, instinctual lady around, and if anything makes it more dangerous for her, it would be me telling her not to do it.

  As Aiden assured me last night, when I got home from dinner with Mom and Pops, it’s impossible for her or her firm to unveil my identity.

  “Listen, Ben,” Aiden said over the phone, as I sat, hunched over on my blue leather couch, the glass windows to my right showcasing downtown Manhattan in glaring relief against my retinas. “The number of people who’ve been found while under witness protection, who follow our rules, have been zero.”

  “You sure about that?” I asked.

  “Damn right. You were four years old when we took you into custody. The chances of you making a mistake were high back then, since you were so young and confused. But now? As a grown man? You’re careful. You’ve done everything we’ve asked you to do. You’ve never tried to delve into your past and under no circumstance have you gone back to the scene of the crime. You’re clean, Ben. There is no way, no freaking way, these lawyers are going to blow your cover.”

  “You don’t know this lawyer,” I mumble while rubbing my face.

  “Need I remind you, Ben. Literally zero protectees have been compromised. It’s only if you make a mistake landing you in hot water that could blow your cover, but you haven’t.”

  Except for that one time, I almost say to Aiden, with Dodge Hennessy.

  “We’ve removed all photos of you from the record,” Aiden continues, “and you have a new birth certificate and social security number. In essence, Ryan Delaney doesn’t exist anymore.”

  The name, Aiden’s use of my true birthright, sends my mind into—Ryan, come here before you hurt yourself, my little adventurer. Come to Mama—figuring out any holes Aiden might not have considered.

  “What if there’s a trial, though? Will I have to come forward?”

  Aiden sighed. “That’ll be up to you. The reason we have WITSEC is to keep material witnesses protected until they can testify. But you’re different. You were a traumatized child. We put you into protection for your lifelong safety. Has anything come to light since? Do you remember anything about that night?”

  I was quick to answer. “No.”

  “Then there really is no point, and our office will
be sure to communicate that to both sides. But if it’s necessary, we can secretly bring you to the courthouse—”

  “I’m the number ten draft of the NFL 2016 season. I’ve broken records the two professional seasons I’ve played. There’s no way I’ll stay a secret, especially if there’s a damned jury.”

  Aiden grumbles. He doesn’t like that I’ve become so famous, and I can’t blame the guy. But like he said, the cartel remembers a four-year-old face. “Then you won’t testify. End of story. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The charges are barely dry on these guys.”

  I didn’t want to focus on the two men arrested—Angel Lopez and Jose Garcia. Didn’t want to see their faces and attempt to dig into my buried memories to see if they match.

  “Are you sure I can do that? Avoid the trial?” I asked.

  “Listen Ben, the only person who can blow your cover is you. You can voluntarily leave WITSEC at any time. I’ve told you this. Although I don’t advise it.”

  “I’m not planning to,” I said. Then, more fiercely, “I’m Ben. Ben Donahue.”

  Pound, pound, pound.

  The impact of my shoe’s soles shoot up my legs until my knees ache, my thighs burn, and I’m as far away as possible from my thoughts.

  A phone call interrupts Easton’s musical chorus, and I press on the knob on my headphones to answer with mostly breath, “Yeah?”

  “Good, you’re awake.”

  “I’m always awake, Ash.” I round the corner of my block, see the entrance to my apartment complex, and decide to run past it and take another city lap. “Question is, how are you awake?”

  “Can’t sleep. Thinking too much about the restaurant space I showed you yesterday.”

  “Told you then,” I say after a big inhale. “And I’ll tell ya now. It’s a good idea. Open your pastry display.”

  “I said a fuckin’ restaurant.”

  “Bakery.”

  “Restaurant.”

  “Cream puff shop.”

  “Fuck you. I need to round up the team, since your opinion means shit without their consensus. Really hash it out. You free for dinner tomorrow night?”

  “Monday? Yeah, man. Season’s over.”

  “Awesome. Gonna see if the rest of the crew are around, too. I’ll text you the time. See ya then.”

  Ash hangs up, and Easton’s naturally soothing voice kicks back in. I use it as a balm and refuse to feel weird about it, since his lyrics help me regulate the emotions clanging around in my chest.

  Astor is part also of Ash’s crew round-up. She’ll likely be there, too, tomorrow night, if she decides to free herself from the bonds of her career. Her and her sorry ballsack of a fiancé, Mike.

  I slow my steps, encouraging my heartbeat to fall into a regular rhythm. Lifting up my shirt, I wipe sweat off my face.

  Whistles sound from across the street, and I notice it’s from construction guys, the only other people awake and running their jackhammers on this fine winter morning. I flutter them the bird.

  Every time I see Astor, I have to forget the one time she went supple in my hands, bowed to my will, and was ready to do anything I asked. How rock hard I’d gone, and, if I ever thought about it in front of her, how bone solid I’d go again.

  Fuck, and I thought making it to the Super Bowl was tough.

  12

  Astor

  It’s better to go the polite route first.

  That’s what my mom taught me, a bunch of nonsense about catching more flies with honey that I groaned at as a teenager, but now wish I could hear again from her lips as an adult.

  Finding the number for the US Marshals Service was easy enough. Taryn’s in her own cubicle today, attempting to research other ways of tracking down a material witness under protection.

  The futileness of our goal is like a loudspeaker against my ear, but I can’t shake the idea that there’s a reason Yang wants the associates on Ryan Delaney’s tail, and hell if I won’t be the one to figure it out first.

  Then I was laughed at—repeatedly—over the phone by a man named Aiden Watts, Federal US Marshal.

  “Listen, honey—”

  Big mistake. “I’m not your honey or dear or sweetheart or strawberry tartlet,” I interrupt. “I’m an associate at Costello, Wine & Cottone, and I want answers. If you can’t give them to me, I’ll be forced to get creative, and believe me, when I do that, I usually unearth facts that the other party really wants kept quiet.”

  “You’re not going to find anything, anywhere,” Watts says, my scolding having zero effect.

  “I want to know where Ryan Delaney is. His life could be in danger. This is a well-known, well-funded crime ring we’re talking about, here.”

  “His life is not in danger,” Watts says, “because he’s adequately protected. I want to say that any sniffing around you do will likely compromise him, but sniff away. You’re not gonna find him.”

  “He’s a grown man. What does he want? Have you considered that?”

  “He wants nothing to do with whatever you’ve got going on with your two men in custody.”

  “Aha, so you’re admitting you talked to him.” I prop my elbows on my desk, holding the phone in the crook of my neck and ear and write down, AIDEN WATTS - contact for RD.

  Aiden muffles a curse, then recovers quickly with, “Of course I have. I’m a Marshal.”

  “But you might not’ve been his Marshal.” I tap the pen against the desk. “Is he in New York City?”

  “He’s not anywhere you’ll be able to locate.”

  “Yet.”

  “He doesn’t want to be found, Miss Hayes.”

  “Well, I work for my clients, not for him.”

  “Goodbye, Miss Hayes.”

  “Until I call you again, at least.” I rush to say before he hangs up, “Which I will.”

  Click.

  God. Some parts of this job, I really do feel like a tabloid reporter.

  I set the phone back on its handle, and slump back in my chair, thinking. The polite route didn’t work. I didn’t think it would, but had to cross it off my list before the deluge of phone calls Mr. Watts is going to get once the other associates get a whiff—but now I’m stumped.

  I’ve never had to locate someone in WITSEC before, an acronym for Federal Witness Security, the official term for witness protection. And from my research, nobody else was successful, either. Not if the witness played by the cops’ rules and stayed clean. As far as I can tell, Ryan Delaney poofed out of existence the night his parents were killed. He hasn’t done anything to make his identity known, that I can see, and he’s been under protection since he was a toddler. He’s unlikely to do anything now.

  Unless.

  He must’ve heard about Lopez and Garcia’s arrests. I have to use this to my advantage, flush him out somehow, maybe go to the press anonymously with some insider information about the case. But that blurs a whole bunch of lines.

  Am I that desperate?

  Is that what Yang wants?

  This whole office is filled with questionable morals, and that’s just the first floor. I’ve stretched them, sure, maybe molded them to my own devices a few times, but I’ve never crossed them.

  If I screw up, then I’ll lose everything. My attorney’s license, my credibility, my reputation.

  Is it worth it?

  “Hey, babe.” Mike’s face looms over my cubicle wall. “What are you working on?”

  “Fuck off, Mike.”

  “You used to like the way I fucked.” He smiles the one that used to have me smiling back, but all I can muster is revulsion.

  “Well, you ruined it when you stuck your dick in a whole bunch of other women,” I say tiredly.

  Mike dips down so he’s closer in range. “Astor, c’mon. Don’t be saying that stuff so loudly.”

  “Worried people will get to know the real you?”

  “No, I’m worried you actually mean what you’re saying.” Without invitation, he takes the chair that Taryn left besid
e mine. “It’s been two days, Astor. Hasn’t this been enough time to realize we were good together?”

  “Not good enough.”

  Mike leans closer. I lean away, closer to my monitor. “Honey, I’ve told you—”

  “Don’t call me honey.”

  “Fine. Astor, I’ve told you how sorry I am. I’ve emailed, texted, left voicemails, saying I screwed up bad. I shouldn’t’ve said the things I did. I didn’t mean them. I still love you. Of course I still love you.”

  I shake my head, holding up my hand to him. “Mike, enough…”

  “Why are you still wearing our ring, then?”

  I clench my raised hand into a fist, refusing to answer.

  “It’s because you still have feelings for me. You don’t want to let us go.”

  “Yesterday you couldn’t wait to trample me for a chair in the Delaney case. And now—what? You’re giving me unrequited love? Which is it, Mike? Do you want to use me for business or pleasure?”

  “Can’t it be both?” He dares to touch the back of my hand and stroke down. “We were so fuckin’ good at both.”

  “Don’t,” I whisper.

  “You miss me, Astor. I know you do.”

  “I miss what I thought we were,” I admit. “But you ruined it, Mike. You. Because you couldn’t keep your dick loyal, because you lie, because you cheat me both in bed and in business. I’m not yours anymore, so go away. Just go. Away.”

  Mike’s mouth, so supple and shining before, hardens into a thinly veiled sneer. It’s when his gaze cuts to the paper under my hand, the one with Aiden Watts’s information, that I feel so utterly gamed.

  I flip it over. “Leave.”

  “With pleasure,” he says. “But you’ll realize your mistake soon enough. You’ll be begging for my cock. I’m the only one, the only dude who’s ever loved you. Got that? No one else is gonna get through your cunty barrier. Well, maybe the ones who want your inheritance could deal with it.”