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I could feel the heartache that caused him. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to have an ounce of empathy for a man who would set me up so frivolously, so I fought it. I buried it under a mountain of resentment.
“A few weeks later, she couldn’t take the bullying anymore and killed herself.”
That time, a wave of guilt hit me. It had a smooth, pure texture. Zero conflict. Zero doubt. He felt responsible for his sister’s death. In a word, he hated himself, and I realized that had been the odd emotion I felt every time I met him. I just figured he hated me. I got that a lot. But his feelings were directed solely toward himself. That was new. In general, people can’t handle guilt. Their minds won’t let them for very long. So they make up excuses. Excuses work like a salve, allaying the guilt, letting you forget the real problem. For example, every time an abusive husband says something like, “You made me hit you,” he’s twisting the guilt—she didn’t have di
“It tore my family apart,” he continued, standing to stare out his window. “My parents split up. My mother sank into a depression. I rarely saw my dad. Within six months, my world had been turned inside out.”
“I’m so sorry, Captain.”
He turned back to me. “It gets better. And this is the part you need to keep very, very quiet.”
“Or you’ll burn me.”
“I’ll bury you. You will spend years behind bars.”
Just when I was begi
He walked over and leaned against the desk in front of me, towering over me, making sure I knew he was top dog. After studying my face—my perturbed face—a solid minute, he said, “I was seven when I hunted that kid down and killed him.”
I stilled. He was confessing a murder to me. That was there in the back of my mind, but even more salient was the fact that he was only seven when he did it.
“Did you know that they rarely suspect a seven-year-old of murder? I wasn’t even questioned.”
The shock I felt surely showed on my face. As I’d demonstrated many times in my life, my poker face was virtually nonexistent. But my fight-or-flight response was top notch. He’d just confessed to murder. I wasn’t going to make it out of that room alive. I couldn’t help a glance toward the door.
“No one’s stopping you,” he said, nodding toward my escape route. He didn’t seem particularly concerned. Of course he wouldn’t be. He had evidence of me buying drugs all over town. My accusations would be in retaliation after his attempt to arrest me. He’d really thought this through.
Then again, would he risk someone knowing his deep dark secret? That paltry evidence wasn’t enough. Any good lawyer could get the charges dropped. He had to know that.
“Is this the part where you kill me?” I asked him.
Of course this was the part where he killed me. He would never let me leave here with that information. Would he say that I went for his gun? That we fought and the gun went off? That’s what I’d do.
“No. As I told you, I have enough evidence on you to put you away for a very long time.”
“That evidence is all circumstantial. You’d need testimonies. Eyewitnesses,” I argued. Why was I arguing this? Making the case for him to just kill me and get it over with. Perhaps it was because when I did leave here—
if
I did leave here—I didn’t want to have to worry about him changing his mind. Would I get a bullet to the back of my head when I least expected it? I didn’t want this hanging over my head for the rest of my life. “You’d need credible witnesses,” I added before pointing to the photographs. “Not that crap you sent me in the streets.”
One step ahead of me, he said, “Bought and paid for.”
Damn, he thought of everything. At least he was thorough.
“I also have footage of you constantly talking to yourself. Arguing with air. Shaking some invisible friend’s hand. Hugging someone only you could see. Everything together adds up to a lengthy sentence in prison or the nuthouse. I’m good with either.”
Holy crap. I knew that stuff would come back to haunt me. Damn it.
He leaned closer. “As long as I stay out of jail, you stay out of jail.”
I was beaten. He won. I crossed my arms over Danger and Will. “Why go to all this trouble? Why confess something so incriminating to me now? After all these years? You don’t exactly like me. Or trust me.”
“I do trust you to a degree. I see the lengths you go for your clients. It’s noble. Stupid at times, but noble. But you’re right. I’m fairly certain I don’t like you. And I need to know.”
“If you like me?”
“If he did it. The kid. When I was— When I killed him, he swore he didn’t do it. Over and over. He swore he never touched my sister. But I’d seen the bruises on her. The blood. I also saw the mark she left on her assailant. She said she bit his wrist. He had a bite mark on his wrist days later. But I need to know the truth. I have to be certain.”
If he killed the guy, how was I supposed to find out the truth? Just how much did he know about me?
“I need to hear it from the dead kid, and you are just the person to ask him.”
I shifted in my chair, suddenly uncomfortable. Or, well,
more
uncomfortable. “And how am I supposed to do that?”
“I don’t know. Call him. Cha
“That’s crazy talk,” I said, inching up out of my chair.
He didn’t move to stop me, but put a hand on the sidearm at his hip. “I’m an excellent shot.”
I plopped back down. “You’re psychotic, is what you are. I am so telling Uncle Bob. You want me to talk to a dead kid? Now who’s going to the nuthouse?”
“Spare me. I know everything.”
He couldn’t possibly know everything. Wait— “Did you bug me?” I asked, appalled. He’d done every other kind of surveillance. Surely he threw in a few bugs for good measure.
“A little.”
“That’s so illegal!” I bolted to my feet.
“So is framing you for crimes you didn’t commit. I think we’re beyond that right now.”
He had a point. And despite everything he just told me, I felt nothing malicious coming off him. I did feel an odd mix of emotions, but I doubted he harbored any ill will toward me. This was a means to an end.
“How do you know I won’t lie to you?”
“I don’t. So I’ll need proof. You talk to this kid, ask him how I killed him, then ask him if he did it.” He tossed another picture at me, only this one was an old school picture of a blond kid, about fourteen years old. “Do whatever it is you do to talk to dead people. Ask him.”
I gave in. “Captain, I can’t just talk to dead people.”
He glowered. “Don’t bullshit me. I will have you in lockup with enough charges to make your lawyer’s head spin before you can say frame job. And I might toss in some charges on kiddie porn to spice things up. I will destroy your reputation in any way that I can.”
He was serious. He was actually serious, but again, reluctantly so. He would do what he had to do, my life be damned.
I blinked in absolute shock. “That’s so not fair.”
“Life’s a bitch that way. His name was Kory. Do your thing or get used to the idea of spending the rest of the decade behind bars.”
It could happen. Reyes was living, breathing proof that people went to prison for crimes they didn’t commit. But the odds of this kid still being on earth, on this plane, were zero to nil. It just didn’t happen that way. Once the departed crossed, I couldn’t talk to them. They were gone. On the other side.
“You’re going to have to indulge me a moment.”
He shrugged a shoulder.
I summoned Angel.
“What the hell?” he said, complaining as ever. “I was in the middle of something.”