Chapter 9 Archie
Archie
“You mean to tell me,” I roared, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal, “that Mikayla climbed out of a window, ran out of a church barefoot, her dress torn to hell—”
I jabbed a finger toward the bridal room window, where scraps of white fabric were still clinging to the frame like evidence.
“—and no one,” I continued, voice rising, “no one saw a goddamn thing?”
Morrison flinched.
He’d been with me most of my life. Watched me grow from a boy into something far less forgiving. And still, I managed to scare the bejesus out of him on a near-daily basis.
“The locals were all at a Neighborhood Watch meeting,” he said weakly, for what I was fairly certain was the fourth time.
I stopped pacing and turned slowly.
“And you bought that?” I stepped into his space, lowering my voice to something far more dangerous. “Do you genuinely believe the crime rate on this street is anything above zero-point-zero-zero-zero-zero-zero-zero-zero-zero- of a percent?”
He swallowed. “But—”
“No buts, Morrison!”
I slammed my palm down on the desk. Papers jumped. Morrison did, too.
“Find someone,” I snapped. “Anyone. A witness. Or not. A dog who can talk. I don’t care. Just find someone who saw something!”
Silence followed. Then Judd spoke.
“You know what we need?”
I turned my head slowly. Judd lounged against the wall, chewing his gum like this was a brainstorming session and not the aftermath of my public humiliation.
God, let this moron have a good idea. Otherwise, I was going to have to shoot someone again, and cleanup was exhausting.
“We need a kid,” Judd said.
I stared at him like he’d grown two heads.
“The street’s full of families,” he continued, undeterred. “I bet kids were outside. Riding bikes. Playing soccer. Being annoying. Kids see everything.”
Morrison frowned. “Kids lie.”
Judd shrugged. “Not as much as adults do.”
I blinked. Once.
“…Go on,” I said.
“Let’s bribe them with sports cards,” Judd said confidently. “And gum.”
I hated that this made sense.
Ten minutes later, we had the elusive crown jewel. Judd had produced a kid.
A skinny boy with scabbed knees and a bike helmet hanging off one elbow like it was optional equipment. He froze when he saw us—three men in dark coats, scary looking, and I guess his parents taught him to avoid strangers.
I crouched in front of him, smiling the way adults did when they wanted something and didn’t care how obvious it was.
“What’s your name, champ?”
The kid didn’t answer right away. He shifted his weight, sneaker toe scraping against the pavement, eyes flicking between the three of us like he was trying to calculate the fastest escape route. He looked like a smart kid, weighing up his odds against three grown men with guns beneath their coats.
“Leo,” he said at last, chin lifting a touch, cautious in a way that suggested he’d learned early not to trust unfamiliar faces.
Judd stepped into his line of sight before I could say another word.
He crouched slightly, casual as a man tying his shoe, and reached into his jacket like he was about to perform a magic trick. When his hand emerged, he held a neat stack of pristine Pokemon cards—edges crisp, corners sharp, the kind of condition collectors had wet dreams over.
“You like Pokemon?” Judd asked, easy.
Leo’s eyes betrayed him instantly. They widened, locking onto the cards like heat-seeking missiles. His breath hitched. He leaned forward before his brain caught up, curiosity bulldozing straight through whatever self-preservation he’d brought with him.
“Is that a Scorbunny—” he started, then froze.
Too late, his mouth snapped shut, hands curling at his sides like he could physically restrain the words from spilling out.
Judd smiled, satisfied.
“And gum,” Judd added, producing a full, unopened pack like it was contraband. He held it up between two fingers, letting it dangle just out of reach.
Leo swallowed. Hard.
“Jesus Christ,” Morrison muttered behind me. “We’re bribing children now?”
Judd didn’t even glance back. He took a half step closer to Leo—then, just as smoothly, took one back. The cards stayed in sight. Close enough to ache. Far enough to torment.
“You ever see a pack this clean?” Judd asked. “No bent corners. No mystery stains. Straight from the source.”
Leo’s shoulders tensed. “Can I—”
Judd tilted his head. “You can. The question is, how badly do you want to?”
Silence stretched. Sticky. Humid.
Leo’s resolve cracked in stages. First his jaw loosened. Then his shoulders sagged, all the tension draining out of him in one visible wave, replaced by the defeated look of a kid who’d realized he’d lost the negotiation several moves ago.
I almost admired the timing.
I made a mental note not to hire him when he came of age. I had enough problems already—what I didn’t need was a rat with lousy self-control and a face that announced his thoughts five seconds before his mouth caught up.
I exhaled sharply. “For the love of—just say what you saw.”
Leo flinched at my tone, then glanced back at the cards. Judd let them dip a fraction lower, close enough that Leo’s fingers twitched.
“Easy,” Judd said. “No rush. We’re all friends here.”
“We are not friends,” I snapped.
Judd smiled wider.
Leo cracked.
“Okay,” he blurted. “Okay. I might’ve seen some stuff.”
Judd raised a brow. The cards didn’t move. “Might have?”
Leo sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I saw stuff. Alright? A lot of stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?” I asked.
Leo hesitated, eyes flicking between me and the cards like he was trying to calculate how much truth each one cost.
Judd took another step back.
The gum rustled softly.
Leo groaned. “That’s not fair.”
I threw my hands up. “Spit it out!”
Leo finally snapped, words tumbling over each other.
And just like that, Leo stopped being a kid on a bike and became the most valuable person on the street.
“The bride,” Leo said. “She ran out onto the road.”
The word hit harder than it should have. Ran. Not taken. Not dragged. Not screaming for help.
She ran.
My jaw tightened as I leaned closer. “From where?”
“The big building with the bells,” he said, nodding toward the church like it was obvious. “She came out fast. Like—really fast. No shoes. Dress all ripped up.” He mimed tearing fabric with his hands, enthusiastic. “She looked crazy.”
“Was she alone?” I asked.
Leo took a moment to think before he responded.
“She was. Until she got hit by a car. The car stopped,” he went on. “It was a black one. Real fancy. Didn’t make much noise.”
My blood went cold, sliding somewhere unpleasant behind my ribs.
“Who was in it?” I asked carefully.
Leo shrugged, already chewing through his future dental bills with the gum. “I didn’t see faces. But the driver looked Italian.”
“And then what happened?” I pressed.
“They put her in the car,” Leo said. “And then they drove off.”
I straightened slowly, every piece of the puzzle clicking into place with a sound I didn’t like.
“You didn’t happen to catch a license plate, did you, kid?” I asked, already bracing myself for disappointment.
Leo blinked up at me. Once. Twice. His face was blank.
“What’s a license plate?”
I stared at him. Really stared.
The kid was eleven—twelve at a stretch. Old enough to ride a bike unsupervised, old enough to negotiate bribes with alarming efficiency, and apparently old enough to witness a felony—but somehow unfamiliar with the basic concept of identifying a car.
I narrowed my eyes. “The numbers,” I said slowly, enunciating like I was explaining fire. “On the back of the vehicle.”
“Oh.” His face brightened. “You mean the metal rectangle?”
I closed my eyes for a brief, centering moment.
“Did you see it?” I asked.
He shook his head, entirely unbothered. “Nah. I was watching the bride. She was way more interesting.”
Of course she was.
I exhaled through my nose and made a second mental note—not only was this child a rat, he was also useless under pressure. A dangerous combination.