Chapter 39
thirty-nine
Stay calm.
Stay in control.
Ghost drew one practiced breath, and then another, and another, and repeated the mantra in his head over and over.
Stay calm.
Stay in control.
But his knuckles ached, and his palms were sweating. His breath sounded too harsh, bouncing off the concrete cell.
Stay calm.
Stay in control.
The cell was eight by ten feet. Standard county holding, with a metal toilet in the corner that offered no privacy, a thin mattress on a bolted-down frame, and the bench where he sat.
The air smelled of industrial disinfectant layered over decades of sweat and desperation.
He had been in worse places—much worse—but the confinement still scraped against his nerves like sandpaper.
He’d lost control. After years of perfect discipline, of containing every impulse behind walls of ice and calculation, he’d snapped.
The moment he’d seen that wounded animal look in her eyes, something dark and primal had overridden his training.
He hadn’t just wanted to subdue Deveraux—he’d wanted to destroy him, to erase him from the earth for daring to touch her.
And in doing so, he’d given the sheriff exactly what he wanted: an excuse to shut down their investigation, to discredit Naomi’s account, to paint Valor Ridge as a haven for dangerous ex-cons playing at reformation.
Stupid. Sloppy. Amateur.
Across the room, Walker Nash stood with his hands braced on Sheriff Goodwin’s desk, leaning forward.
Boone and Marshal Brandt flanked him like sentinels, three men against the smug certainty of Hank Goodwin, who sat behind his desk as if it were a throne, immune to the pressure building in his office like a sealed pressure cooker.
They’d been at it for hours. The clock on the wall read 10:42 PM, and Ghost could track the progression of their arguments by the deepening lines in Walker’s face, the increasingly rigid set of Boone’s shoulders.
“For the last time,” Goodwin said, leaning back in his chair with an easy confidence that made Ghost’s jaw clench, “your boy assaulted a tribal officer in front of witnesses. There’s cell phone footage. Kids saw it, for Christ’s sake.”
“That ‘tribal officer’ was identified as one of the men who abducted Naomi Lefthand,” Walker said with barely restrained patience. “A fact that seems remarkably uninteresting to you, Hank.”
Goodwin waved a dismissive hand. “We have one traumatized woman making an accusation. An accusation against a man with a spotless record, I might add.”
“A traumatized woman?” Brandt stepped forward, his federal badge catching the fluorescent light. “Ms. Lefthand is a former federal agent and a trained observer. Her identification carries weight.”
“Not in my jurisdiction, it doesn’t.” Goodwin’s smile was thin and sharp as a paper cut. “What carries weight here is evidence. Due process. Rule of law. Things your boy in the cell there seems to have forgotten in his rush to play vigilante.”
Ghost didn’t move, didn’t react. He’d given them enough ammunition already.
But he remembered the look on Naomi’s face when she’d heard Deveraux’s voice—the blood draining from her skin, the sudden, animal terror in her eyes.
That hadn’t been confusion or mistake. It had been recognition, bone-deep and visceral.
“Where is Officer Deveraux now?” Brandt asked, his tone deceptively casual.
“Getting his broken nose set at County General,” Goodwin replied.
Brandt gave a decisive nod and turned away. “Same as where the other two victims are being treated. I’ll just go have a chat with them, see if they recognize—”
Hank came half out of his chair. “Wait.”
Brandt turned back, eyebrow raised.
“You’re making a mistake, Marshal.” Goodwin’s voice had an edge to it now, the easy confidence slipping. “The victims are being treated for shock. Doctors have advised against questioning.”
“I have federal jurisdiction in a trafficking investigation,” Brandt replied, his tone still measured but unyielding. “Medical staff doesn’t dictate when I conduct interviews.”
Ghost watched the exchange from behind the bars, cataloging every micro-expression on Goodwin’s face. The tightening around his eyes. The subtle flex of jaw muscles. The sheriff was rattled.
“Those girls have been through enough without being badgered by federal agents,” Goodwin insisted.
“Funny,” Walker said. “You didn’t seem concerned about their wellbeing when you were dismissing the existence of a trafficking ring ten minutes ago.”
Goodwin’s face flushed and unhealthy shade of red that couldn’t be good for his blood pressure. “If there’s anyone trafficking girls around here, it’s not Mitch Deveraux. I can gaurantee you that.” he nodded toward Ghost’s cell. “And now thanks to your rabid dog over there—”
Boone, who’d been silent until now, took a half-step forward. “Call him that again,” he said quietly, “and you’ll need more than one hospital bed.”
Walker put a hand on Boone’s arm without looking at him. A silent command. Stand down.
Rabid dog.
Ghost flexed his bruised knuckles, remembering the feeling of Deveraux’s jaw cracking beneath them.
The satisfaction had been primal and immediate, a pure hit of vindication that had burned through him like lightning.
But it had faded just as quickly, replaced by the cold realization that he’d become exactly what they thought he was.
The killer. The weapon. The man with blood on his hands and ice in his veins.
Naomi deserved better.
“We all want the same thing here, Sheriff,” Brandt said, though Ghost could hear the lie in his voice. “The truth. Justice. Safety for this community.”
“Then we’re already on the same page.” Goodwin smiled then, and it chilled the air. “The Padilla case is closed. Her uncle all but confessed in his suicide note.”
Before Ghost could think better of it, he was on his feet and at the bars.
“What?” he demanded at the same time Walker asked, “Sampson Padilla’s dead?”
Goodwin didn’t bother trying to conceal that cold smile. “He hanged himself in his shop last night. His brother found him this morning.”
Nobody said anything for a handful of beats.
“If he confessed, what was his motive?” Brandt finally asked.
“Money, what else? The auto shop wasn’t doing as well as he wanted everyone to believe. He was involved with some unsavory people—cartel, most likely—and Leelee got caught in the crossfire. Tragic, but straightforward. One bad apple, not a conspiracy.”
Ghost watched Goodwin’s face as he spoke—the subtle tells, the micro-expressions.
The way his left eye twitched slightly when he mentioned Sampson’s suicide.
The slight rush of his words when he dismissed the idea of a larger trafficking operation.
He’d interrogated enough liars in dark rooms across the globe to recognize deception when he saw it.
This wasn’t just a man protecting his jurisdiction or refusing to admit he’d missed something. This was deliberate.
“A convenient suicide,” Brandt observed, his electric blue eyes never leaving Goodwin’s face. “I think I’ll still question the girls.”
Goodwin’s jaw tightened. “This is my county. My jurisdiction. You want to start questioning my citizens based on conspiracy theories and the word of an ex-con who can’t control his temper, you can get a warrant.”
“Oh, I will,” Brandt assured him. “But right now, I’m more interested in why you’re so determined to shut down this investigation. Why you’re working so hard to pretend there’s no connection between Leila Padilla, Mary Rose Charlo, and the other missing women across three counties.”
“There is no connection,” Goodwin insisted, though that unhealthy flush crept up his neck again. “Just the overactive imagination of a woman who couldn’t cut it at the FBI and a bunch of felons playing detective.”
Walker straightened, his weathered face settling into lines of stone. “Ghost gets released. Tonight. Or I start making calls to people who make you look very, very small, Hank.”
Ghost stared at the back of Walker’s head. Fuck. Did he mean Isolde Mara? He wouldn’t dare. Ghost had never told him the entire story, but he knew enough to know the woman was a snake who couldn’t be trusted not to bite the hand that feeds her.
Goodwin scoffed. “Threatening an officer of the law, Walker?” He scribbled a note on a legal pad in front of him. “Adding that to the list of charges for when I finally shut down your fucking ranch.”
“It wasn’t a threat,” Walker replied without heat. “It was a courtesy. One last chance for you to do this the easy way.”
“You think you’re saving the world out at that ranch of yours,” Goodwin spat. “Playing at redemption. But some men can’t be saved. Some men are just irredeemable, through and through.”
“Bullshit,” Boone growled.
Goodwin’s eyes flicked to him. “You stay out of this, nephew.” Then back to Walker: “This is what happens when you collect broken men and tell them they’re heroes, Nash.
Sooner or later, the cracks show. Sooner or later, they snap.
” He gestured toward Ghost. “He’s exactly where he belongs.
Behind bars, where he can’t hurt anyone else. ”
Walker went very still, and Ghost recognized the look that settled over his face. It was the same expression he’d worn the day River had nearly drowned in the flash flood—a terrible, focused calm that preceded swift, decisive action.
“You’d know all about irredeemability, wouldn’t you, Hank?”
Goodwin flinched as if Walker had struck him. The sheriff’s jaw worked silently for a moment, a vein pulsing in his temple.
“You’re still holding onto that, aren’t you?” Goodwin finally managed. “After all these years. My father’s sins aren’t mine, Nash.”
“Aren’t they?” Walker’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “Because from where I’m standing, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
Goodwin’s shoulders had drawn up, defensive. His breathing quickened. Whatever history existed between Walker and the Goodwin family, it ran deep—and it was a nerve Walker knew exactly how to strike.
Brandt cleared his throat. “I’ll have that warrant by morning, Sheriff. In the meantime, I strongly suggest you release Mr. Booker into my custody.”
Goodwin stared at Brandt for a long moment, then flicked his gaze to Walker. His face twisted into something ugly before settling back into calculated neutrality.
“Fine.” He reached for his keys and tossed them to a deputy hovering nearby. “Let him go. But he stays away from my town and my officers.”
The deputy moved toward Ghost’s cell with obvious reluctance, fumbling with the keys as if they might bite him.
Ghost remained perfectly still, not wanting to give anyone an excuse to change their minds.
The lock clicked, and the door swung open with a metallic groan that scraped against his nerves.
“This isn’t over,” Goodwin said as Ghost stepped out of the cell. “One more incident—one more hint of violence—and I’ll make sure you never see daylight again.”