Chapter 21 CARRIE
CARRIE
It’s dark by the time I get back to the motel, the cold glow of the sign flickering through the window. I throw my bag on the chair and sink onto the bed, exhaustion and grief pressing me down. The guys aren’t speaking to me. Their trust is gone, and with it, any sense of hope I had left.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number. For a second, I almost ignore it, but something makes me swipe to answer.
“Hello?”
There’s a shaky breath on the other end, then a voice I haven’t heard in weeks. “Carrie? It’s me. Marcy.”
I sit up straight, heart racing. “Marcy—where the hell are you? Are you okay?”
She gives a short, bitter laugh. “I heard you’ve been asking about me. Didn’t think you’d want to talk to me after everything.”
Tears prick my eyes, the ache of betrayal and loss boiling over.
“Do you not hate me for what I’ve done?”
My voice wobbles, breaking apart. “I’m not sure I even know how to forgive you, Marce. But I miss you. I just wanted to know you were alive.”
There’s silence, the sound of a sniffle, then Marcy says, softer, “I’m so sorry, Carrie. For everything. I messed up. I wish I could take it back.”
I wipe my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. “You can’t. Neither can I. But I just…I needed to hear your voice. I needed to know you’re alive.” I want to tell her about the deal I made with ATF, and Rodriguez, but something holds me back.
The line is quiet except for Marcy’s shaky breathing. Finally, she speaks, her voice small and raw. “I need your help, Carrie. I don’t have anyone else. Jinn…he’s gone. He got nasty—more than usual. Last night he threw me out. I’m on the street. I just—I need enough for a bus ticket home. Please.”
I press a hand over my eyes, trying to process it all. The last time I saw Marcy, she’d stolen everything from me—Jinn, my trust, my future. Now she sounds like a scared kid, nothing like the sister I remember or the woman who betrayed me.
“This is the first time I’ve heard from you since that night,” I whisper. “Why should I believe you now, Marcy?”
She chokes back a sob. “You don’t have to. I know I fucked up. But I swear, Carrie, I just want to get out of here. I just want to come home. I don’t know where else to turn.”
All my anger and grief war with the old instinct to protect her. I don’t trust her—but I hear the truth in her fear. She really is alone, and now she needs me.
“Where are you right now?” I ask, wiping at my eyes, trying to keep my voice steady.
Marcy sniffs, her voice crackling over the line. “I’m in Youngstown. Just over the border—Ohio. It’s only a couple hours from you, I think. Been sleeping at the bus station and crashing with some girls I met here. I just…I just want to come home.”
The name hits me hard. Youngstown. That’s not even far. And it’s not another country.
Rodriguez told me Jinn had already left the country, but if Marcy’s in Youngstown, Jinn might be near.
It doesn’t add up. Was Rodriguez lying to me—or is someone else playing games?
I grip the phone tighter. “Was Jinn with you? In Youngstown?”
She hesitates, then sighs, her voice brittle. “Yeah. Until two days ago. He took off. Didn’t say where. Just left me here with nothing. But I heard from someone that he’s shacking up with someone new.”
I feel bad for my sister. Sure, she fucked me over, but now she’s stuck between a rock and a hard place, desperate for help. My mind spins, questions multiplying, old anger and new fear tangling together. But all Marcy wants is to come home.
“I’ll figure something out,” I say, voice flat but certain. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll call you back soon.”
She breathes out, relieved. “Thank you, Carrie. You don’t know how much this means.”
I end the call with Marcy and stare at the screen, my mind buzzing.
I open my banking app, hoping for a miracle.
My first paycheck from the prison cleared a few days ago—my hands shake as I check the balance.
The number isn’t comforting. Most of it disappeared the same day I got it, thanks to the doctor’s appointment, tests, and meds.
No insurance means everything is out of pocket.
What’s left isn’t much. Barely enough for groceries, let alone a bus ticket across state lines.
I rub at my tired eyes, frustration and guilt swelling inside me.
Marcy’s out there, desperate and alone, and I’m supposed to be her safety net.
But I can’t save her and save myself—not with everything closing in, not with the baby, the guys, Rodriguez, all of it.
I drop the phone in my lap, staring out the dark motel window, wondering how I’m going to fix any of this.
The bus drops me in front of a plain brick federal building just outside Cleveland—a squat, gray thing with mirrored windows and a faded seal by the door. I’m sweating by the time I make it through the metal detector and up to the reception desk.
The woman at the counter is polite but suspicious, her eyes flicking over my wrinkled shirt and the faded prison ID on my lanyard. “Can I help you?”
I square my shoulders, doing my best to sound official. “I’m here about the Reaper MC weapons bust. I need to speak to someone from the task force. It’s important.”
She eyes me for a second longer, then picks up the phone, speaking in low tones. “Have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”
I wait, picking at the seam of my bag, trying not to look like I’m about to bolt. The waiting area is all neutral colors, echoing with footsteps and the low murmur of agents coming and going.
After ten minutes, a man in a suit calls my name. “Carrie?”
I follow him past a heavy security door, down a carpeted hallway to a glass-walled interview room. He gestures to the table, closes the door behind us, and sits across from me. There’s no badge on his lapel, but he moves with the confidence of someone used to being in charge.
“I’m Special Agent Gates. You said you had information about the Reaper case?”
I nod, clutching my bag to my chest.
The glass-walled interview room is cold and sterile, the hum of an old vent the only sound when Agent Gates closes the door behind us. He sits, straightens a folder, and studies me with practiced calm. I try to mirror it, but my hands shake as I pull out my battered folder.
I place the folder on the table between us. “I’ve been gathering information for someone on your task force—Special Agent Frank Rodriguez. He’s been my point of contact for months.”
Gates raises an eyebrow, pen hovering. “Rodriguez? He’s not assigned to the case anymore.”
I frown. That can’t be right. “I didn’t know that.
He told me to bring anything important directly to him or the task force.
So I’m here. Special Agent Rodriguez—Frank Rodriguez—told me Jinn had already left the country.
But I have proof that’s not true. My sister was with him in Youngstown just two days ago. ”
“Hold up,” Gates interrupts, suddenly all authority, palm lifted. “Rodriguez isn’t authorized to work with witnesses. He’s not on this case. He’s on leave and shouldn’t be sharing or collecting information from anyone.”
His words land like a punch. “What?”
Gates leans forward, tone serious. “If you’ve been giving evidence or information to Rodriguez since he left the task force, that’s a violation of protocol. He shouldn’t have contacted you at all.”
I stare at him, stunned. “I didn’t know. He made it sound like I was helping—like it was urgent, that everything depended on me.”
Gates sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You did the right thing coming here. From now on, anything you have comes straight to me or my team. If Rodriguez contacts you again, you let me know immediately. Understood?”
He starts gathering the files, already shifting into action. “You’re not in trouble, Carrie. But we need to get clear on everything you’ve shared—and with whom. If you remember anything else, call me right away.”
I nod again, numbly, clutching the card he slides across the table.
I leave the interview room in a fog, the agent’s card clutched tight in my hand. The hallway is quiet, lined with closed doors and humming fluorescent lights. I’m just about to take a shaky breath and head for the exit when I hear hurried footsteps coming around the corner.
Rodriguez appears, moving fast, jaw set and eyes searching until they land on me. His mouth twists—not quite a smile, more like a warning. He approaches, lowering his voice as he steps right into my space.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” he mutters, trying to keep his tone level, but I hear the anger simmering underneath. He takes me by the elbow, steering me just out of sight of the main lobby. “I told you—you come to me with everything, remember? Not the rest of the task force.”
Before I can answer, Agent Gates’s door opens again, and both men’s eyes meet. Gates’s expression is unreadable, his posture relaxed but watchful.
“Everything alright out here?” Gates asks, voice even but with an edge.
Rodriguez’s fingers tighten on my arm. “She’s fine,” he says smoothly, “but honestly, you shouldn’t waste your time with her. She’s…not a reliable witness. I’ve worked with her before. She’s mixed up, jumps to wild conclusions, half the time doesn’t even remember what she’s told us.”
Gates doesn’t bite. “I’ll be the judge of that. Frank, can I see you in my office a moment?”
Rodriguez lets go, his jaw twitching, and follows Gates inside. The door clicks closed, but I can hear the low rumble of their voices—Rodriguez more heated, Gates’s tone lower, more professional. The words blur, but I catch enough. “…chain of custody…and misleading a…inappropriate contact.”
And then, clear as day, Rodriguez’s voice: “She’s not credible. She’s a junkie, she’s delusional. She’ll say anything for attention.”
I freeze, humiliation and anger knotting in my stomach. He’s trying to discredit me, make me sound like I’m losing it. He wants them to doubt every word I’ve said, every piece of evidence I’ve brought.
I glance at the exit, every instinct telling me to run, but I know it’s useless. If I disappear now, he’ll make me look even guiltier. I have to stand my ground—play along for now. Because if I don’t, the men I love are doomed.
Back at the motel, I sit on the edge of the bed and open my banking app.
The numbers glare at me—barely enough to cover groceries for the week.
I push down the panic, knowing I have no choice.
I transfer what little I have onto a prepaid card and buy Marcy a ticket home online.
It’s not much, but it’s enough to get her out of Youngstown, enough to give her a shot at starting over.
When I call Marcy back, my voice is flat with exhaustion. “I bought you a ticket. It’s waiting at the counter, just show them your ID when you get to the station. That’s the best I can do, Marcy. I don’t have anything left.”
There’s a pause, then a shaky “thank you” on the other end—her voice so small I almost don’t recognize it. I hang up, too tired to offer comfort, and drop the phone onto the bed.
In the bathroom, I flick on the harsh overhead light and stare at my reflection. My face is pale, dark circles under my eyes, jaw clenched tight. I look like someone barely hanging on, because I am.
One thing is painfully clear—I can’t trust Rodriguez.
He’s not helping me, and he’s sure as hell not interested in justice.
He’s setting up the men for something, maybe worse than I realized.
And if I want to survive this—if I want any hope for myself, for the baby, or for the guys—I have to find out what he’s really after.
I press my palms to the sink, forcing myself to breathe. Whatever comes next, I’m on my own. But I’m done being a pawn.