Chapter 25
ASHER
The way she gives herself to us is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. She’s putty in our hands, complete and unbreakable trust. Willow is the woman my brothers and I have been waiting for. There’s no doubt about it anymore.
There’s only the question of how far the three of us are willing to go in order to keep her, to make her ours, so we can build a future together.
“Willow is still sleeping,” I tell Cole and Toby as I join them in the kitchen.
We’re tired but energized at the same time. It’s the Willow effect, and I love it.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee fills me up before I take the first sip and sit next to my brothers at the table. A lazy January sun sneaks through broken clouds, casting its shy light over the city.
“Does she seem different to you?” Cole asks, a slight frown fluttering across his forehead.
“She’s bolder, for sure,” Toby chuckles, “but I’m not complaining.”
“No, it’s something else. Something she’s not telling us. I told you, the mark of a good woman—”
“Whatever it is, she’ll tell us when she’s ready,” I say, cutting him off. “You, of all people, should know what that means.”
He shakes his head slowly. “I have no intention of coaxing it out of her. I was only making sure I’m not the only one who noticed it.”
“You’re not,” I say. “We have a bigger issue to deal with, however.”
Toby nods in agreement. “Her safety.”
“That’s right,” I reply. “There haven’t been any more threatening messages. She’s been safe, probably because Jamie has been staying with her. The guy won’t let her out of his sight.”
“He’s the definition of a good friend,” Cole smiles.
“We can’t put her safety all on him, though.” Toby sighs and pours himself another cup of coffee. “We need to get ahead of this before another surprise pops up, because the next surprise might end up hurting Willow, or worse.”
“They tracked the pickup truck to an abandoned car lot,” I say.
Going over the last handful of texts I got from our friend, Detective Hornby, it’s clear the police don’t have enough information yet. They’re picking up leads, but none of them had led anywhere concrete.
“No prints, nothing usable, right?” Cole replies.
“Nothing.”
“Of course. Brett Harvey, or whatever his name is, is annoyingly cautious.”
“Hornby is still looking into it,” I say. “They don’t have any recent photos of the guy to compare. An age approximation did show uncanny resemblance, but Hornby isn’t convinced yet.”
My phone rings. The detective’s name pops up on the screen.
“Speak of the devil,” Toby mutters.
I take the call and find myself breathing with strange relief upon finally hearing something useful for once. When I put the phone down, I find Cole and Toby staring at me, each on the edge of their seat, gripping their mugs so tightly the ceramic might crack in their hands.
“Facial recognition software turned up a few more leads,” I say, “for Brett Harvey. Nothing for Perry Jackson. The latter is a ghost. The former, not so much.”
“They’ve got recent stills of the guy?” Cole asks.
“Yes, in Hoboken from two nights ago. Apparently, he’s a regular at Lucky’s Irish Pub on 67th and Braeden Avenue. The cops struck out with the patrons there, probably because they’re cops. He thinks we might be able to get more intel.”
“As civilians, sure,” Toby says, then raises an eyebrow at me. “But I’m not letting you walk into Hoboken like you did in Hell’s Kitchen.”
“Mock my style all you want,” I shoot back.
Cole chuckles lightly. “We’re all going this time. I’ll text Jamie to come pick Willow up when she wakes up.”
A few hours later, my brothers and I dress down and head into Hoboken in a rental car, a dark blue sedan that fits in a little better with the other cars parked along the sidewalk. Hornby’s advice was pretty clear—don’t attract attention, blend in, keep it short and sweet with everyone we talk to.
That turned out to be easier said than done, because as soon as we walk into Lucky’s, I feel the tension rising in the air. The sour, suspicious looks on the handful of patrons who grace the bar just before noon on a Saturday are all directed our way.
“And you said the Terrace at Charleston’s Lounge was too raggedy,” Toby says.
His jab makes me smile. “Pardon me for having discerning tastes.”
“Discerning or elitist?”
“Look alive, you two,” Cole cuts in. “There’s room for us at the bar.”
Clad in jeans and dark leather jackets, we each take a seat at the high counter and order beers. I barely sip from mine since I’m the one with the car key in my pocket. All we need to do is hang around, immerse ourselves into the local flora, and let the fauna come to us.
We watch the rerun of a game on the large LCD screen mounted just above the bar. I reacquaint myself with the smell of stale booze and open bags of peanuts and chips. It reminds me of much younger days, when we roamed free throughout the city, wide eyed and bold, reckless and dangerously curious.
Before long, the bartender notices I haven’t touched my drink. He scowls at me through a pair of milky blue eyes. “Something wrong with our house beer, buddy?”
“No, I’m the designated driver. I’m just being responsible,” I reply.
He looks at my brothers with a suspicious frown. “You’re not from around here.”
“No, sir, we’re not,” Cole replies.
“I could tell. You’re all so clean.”
“Clean?” Toby sounds confused. He thought he’d blend in easier on account of his thicker beard and tattoos.
I glance around and take in the details, realizing that our new friend is right.
We’re men with a mission and a purpose. The others in here—they look worn out, careless, tired and eager to drown their sorrows in alcohol.
The stubbles and the scruffy beards aren’t intentional.
Their shirts are stained or crumpled or both.
Their body language exudes self-abandonment and self-pity.
We shine like fucking diamonds in this place, even when we’re trying not to stand out. I know there’s a joke in there, somewhere.
“We’re looking for work,” Toby says. “Our boss laid us off recently.”
“Recently, for sure,” the bartender quips. “Recently, like an hour ago?”
“What’s wrong with being proactive?” I ask. “I don’t enjoy being poor, so why let that happen if I can land a job or a gig anywhere in town?”
He gives me a wry smile. “I like your spirit.”
“What’s your name?” Cole asks him.
“Randall.”
“Randall, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Cole replies and offers to shake his hand.
Randall shakes it, then offers to refill his glass. “Want another?”
“Might as well. So, do you know anyone around here who’s looking to hire?”
“Not off the top of my head, but if you come in later tonight, there are a couple of managers from up the block who like to wet their whistles here on the weekend. We’ve got a live game on TV at eight.”
Looking around again, I realize that Randall is sharper than we gave him credit for. He took a run at us for being “cleaner” than his other patrons, but he’s quite the bright spot himself.
“You must make a lot in tips here,” I say to him.
He puts on a cool grin. “Maybe.”
“What’s your secret? Come on, share with the class.”
“I take side jobs on my days off. Nothing fancy, just stuff that needs to get done for folks who can afford it.”
I lean in closer. “What if I were to find myself in need of stuff that needs to get done?”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you can afford it.” Randall chuckles dryly.
Cole follows my gaze, then nods once and takes out a wad of cash. He places it on the counter right under Randall’s nose, and the man’s eyes widen in surprise.
“You’re not looking for a job, are you?” he mumbles.
“Would you be interested in the one we’re offering?” Cole replies.
“It depends.”
“On what?” I ask, my tone clipped with thinning patience.
Cole makes a move to withdraw the money. With lightning speed, Randall puts his hand on top of it and gives us another, more compliant smile. “On the complexity of the job, that’s all. Whatever it is, I’ll do it. I just need to make sure the pay is worth it.”
“We want information,” I say.
Randall pauses, his eyes darting all over the room. “Are you cops?”
“No,” Toby replies. “Do we look like cops?”
“You look like men who’ve seen some shit,” he says.
Cole cocks his head to the side for a moment. “I’m not going to argue with you there, but no, we’re not cops. We just need to find someone.”
“Who?”
“Have you ever heard of Brett Harvey?” I ask.
Randall takes a moment to think about it, while my gaze wanders across the back bar.
Most of the bottles aren’t top shelf—just the regular stuff one finds in any affordable dive.
But below the counter, in glass cabinets, I see the more expensive stuff.
Eighteen-year-old whiskey, French cognac, high-end artisanal gin, all under lock and key and not immediately visible.
It makes me think they’ve got a handful of wealthy patrons who come in regularly, high rollers with money to burn.
Randall keeps their bottles down there like spirited little secrets.
And looking at Randall again, his micro-expressions tell me I’m right.
Expensive booze isn’t the only secret he’s keeping.
“You’ve heard the name before,” I say, picking up on his hesitation.
“Maybe,” he concedes.
Cole scoffs and slaps Randall’s hand away from the money. “I’ve had enough.”
“Cops were asking about him the other day. They showed his photo around,” Randall rushes to say, and Cole picks up on his greed, sliding the money toward him.
“Okay, and what did you tell them?” Toby asks, his voice low and rumbling.
“Nothing. I don’t know any Brett Harvey,” he says.
Cole tries to take the money away again.
Randall catches his hand. “But I do know the guy in the photo.”
“You mean this guy?” I say and slide the same photo over the bar counter, leaving it next to the cash. Randall nods with newfound enthusiasm, his gaze constantly darting back to the money. “This is Brett Harvey.”
“That’s not his name.”
“Then enlighten us. What is his name?” Cole is at the end of his rope.
“Perry. That’s all I know. He’s been coming around for years, like clockwork, Wednesday and Friday nights. He orders the same drink and the same food every time.”
“Perry,” Cole repeats, then steals a knowing glance at me.
The name doesn’t just ring a bell, it hits me like a punch in the gut because it makes the one connection we didn’t want to make, the one connection we hoped never to have to make. It unravels deeply unpleasant and dangerous implications, not just for Willow, but also for our entire family.
“That’s right,” Randall says. “I don’t know him that well. We just talk once in a while when the bar isn’t too busy. He gave me a couple of odds jobs, too, one last year and another before Christmas.”
“What was the job before Christmas?” Toby asks and adds another wad of cash next to the first one.
We’re on to something, and we’ve got plenty of cash to spare. All we need is self-control and composure, because I have a feeling it’s about to get uglier and uglier as Randall tells us more.
“Oh, wow,” the bartender gasps. “I have to ask. Why do y’all wanna know?”
“Do you care?” I reply.
“I just don’t want to get the guy in trouble. He was good to me. I needed money to get my teeth fixed. He paid me for an hour-long job, staking out somebody’s office in the car. It was that easy.”
“You can’t get him in trouble; he’s already in trouble. The best you can do is keep yourself out of trouble,” Cole warns him.
Randall thinks about it for a moment. I’m sure he understands the consequences. They’re written all over our faces. And as I offer another wad of cash on top, he laughs nervously, then starts singing like a bird.
“That was the job. One hour. All I had to do was sit in the car and give him the plate number on a chick’s Prius,” he says.
Cole shows him a photo of Willow on his phone. “This chick’s Prius?”
“Yeah, he wanted the plate number. That’s it. I sat around, waiting, thinking I’d spend the whole day before she got out of the office. He knew where she worked, but he said he couldn’t be seen around the area on account of the surveillance cameras.”
“And you didn’t think that was shady?”
“Do you think I fucking cared? He paid a lot of money for that gig. I didn’t hurt anybody. All I did was get him the information he wanted,” Randall replies.
“Did he tell you what he wanted with the woman?”
He shakes his head. “No, but he came in last night. He was in a bad mood, so I poured him a double, then told him the cops were looking for him, except they thought his name was Brett whatever. He didn’t seem surprised, but he got really, really mad.”
“What did he say?”
“That he was ‘this close’ to getting this big job done. He almost had everything in place and couldn’t let the cops or anybody else ruin it for him. He gave me some money to keep quiet.”
I give him a curious look. “Yet you just told us.”
“You paid me more,” he replies with a shady grin. The man has no honor. I couldn’t care less. At least we outbid that fucker for Randall’s loyalty.
“What was the big job about?” Cole asks.
I have a feeling we already know the answer, but we let Randall give us every detail he can remember. The more he speaks, the more worried I get, however.
“He’s supposed to take out some lady,” he says, then points a finger at his head and mimics the sound of a gunshot.
“You know what I mean? It’s a complex job, he said.
Lots of eyes on him. He almost got her at some fancy wedding, but things got mixed up.
He wouldn’t tell me much about that, but he did mention he was about to do something even wilder. He was excited about it.”
“I’m assuming he’s getting paid for this. Did he tell you who his employer was?” Cole asks, his foot nervously tapping the barstool’s weathered steel leg.
“He’s not doing it for the money,” Randall says. “That’s the thing I remember. It’s what struck me the most. He said he’s doing it out of love.”
And there we have it: means, motive, opportunity.
Willow’s instinct was on point long before she knew it.
There was a reason she remembered the snake heart tattoo when Dad mentioned Sheila’s ex-boyfriend to her.
It’s not some unknown dude named Brett Harvey who we’ve been dealing with, the ghost without a past or a footprint, it’s Perry Jackson, Sheila’s first love, and he’s determined to kill Willow for some unknown reason.
Toby and Cole turn to face me, and I see the dread imprinted on their faces. I see it, and I feel it burrowing deep inside me, too, because I understand what this means.
And where it will lead.