31. Shake On It
31
Shake On It
Late that afternoon, I sat window-side at the French patisserie at 4 th and Main, flaunting my newfound nice guy persona. I’d cleaned up for the occasion. My hair was tamed, and I wore black denims with a hoodie and jacket, plus a fingerless glove on my left hand. I shouldn’t have drawn much attention but, like I’d reminded Grimm, my very public trial was not quite twenty-four hours past, and I had my infamous face to contend with.
Patrons who had filled the restaurant upon my arrival left long ago. A mass exodus began the moment I walked in, as though signaled by the tinkling bell above the door.
It was a predictable reaction, and one of the many reasons I didn’t get out much before dark or frequent places like this.
Bentwood chairs and floor-to-ceiling bookcases gave structure to the space, lorded over by bubble glass chandeliers. Cloched cake stands lined the service counter, full of Danishes and croissants. Once upon a time, cheese Danish and cocoa had been mine and Donovan’s after-school indulgence. On crisp autumn afternoons, we had shared this same table with our mother. We sipped hot drinks made with heavy cream and melting chocolate for which gas station instant made a sad substitute.
Despite the service staff having no other customers to attend to, they hadn’t spoken a word to me. Instead, they scurried to the kitchen, and occasional heads popped up behind the passthrough window. One woman had spent several minutes on the phone.
Was she calling the Capitol? They already knew. Their best and brightest was meeting me here.
The doorbell jingled again. I watched to see if the sound would draw the employees out of hiding like groundhogs from cover until Holland Lyle came to a stop on the other side of my table.
She wore jeans and a cropped sweatshirt, and her hair was tied in a messy bun with loose strands that framed her burgundy lips. Aviator sunglasses completed the look, though she surprised me by shoving them up into the nest of her hair.
Her exposed eyes darted around the vacant restaurant, returning to me as she frowned.
“Fitch,” she began, “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Or at all.”
I snorted softly.
You and me both .
She took a seat, gazing out the storefront window at the people milling by outside. A few of them had spotted us, or perhaps they were among those who fled and were now lingering to see what happened next.
Holland’s cheeks pinked. She cupped a hand to the side of her face nearest the glass that framed us like mannequins on display.
“This is a PR nightmare,” she muttered, her embarrassment shifting into irritation. “And for the record, I almost didn’t come. ”
“But you’re glad you did?” I raised a brow.
“That remains to be seen.”
Silence ate up the space between us until the smell of ground coffee grew stronger than my will to go without it.
“You want something to eat? Or drink?” I stood and slid around the table past her. “I’m gonna poke my head in the back and see about the holdup. I seem to recall the service here being better.”
Holland blinked as though I’d offered a novel thought. “Sure,” she replied. “Latte. Half caff. No foam.”
My pockets were no longer empty, having spent the earlier part of the day bailing my car out of impound. My personal effects had been waiting in the driver’s seat, tucked in a large manila envelope signed by Talbot Collier.
Bypassing the counter, I went to the swinging door with its porthole window and knocked.
Within seconds, a white-aproned waitress pushed it open and peeked out with wide eyes. She must have drawn the short straw.
My smile failed to ease her nerves or keep her from stammering as she said, “H-hello, sir. What can, can I get for you?”
I repeated Holland’s order and added an Americano for myself, then pulled a few bills from my wallet while triple-checking nothing had gone missing while it was in Thorngate’s care.
With a bob of her head, the waitress took the money and scurried to the register. A few moments later, the espresso machine fired up, whooshing steam and brewing shots. The drinks were placed on the counter, white mugs in matching saucers, and I carried them back to the table .
“You scared her,” Holland mused as I set the cups down.
“I tend to have that effect on people.”
I sipped the Americano. Bitter and blisteringly hot, it could have used a splash of milk, but I’d manage without.
In contrast, Holland appeared more interested in staring at her latte than drinking it. She’d done most of the talking during my incarceration, when she stood to gain everything I would have lost. I was content to let her lead this conversation, as well, so long as I got the final word.
“You said you had something you wanted to discuss?” she asked.
The part of the day I hadn’t spent at the impound lot or cleaning up the motel room had been used to consider this talk. Grimm, as Jacoby Thatcher, had crafted a compelling narrative. Not a story I was eager to perpetuate, but it was a start.
“I’ve had some time to think—”
“Not much time.” She scoffed. “I just saw you last night.”
She reminded me suddenly of her younger self. Tomboyish and sharp, she’d been one of the few people who could out-argue me. To be fair, she’d bested me at more than that. I admired her before I loved her. She was the first and last girl for whom I had such feelings.
“It doesn’t take long for a man to realize he’s made a mistake,” I said.
Holland frowned for a long moment, then shook her head. “Okay, I’ll bite. What mistake?”
“Well, you know about the prison break.”
The investigator’s skepticism persisted as she replied, “I was there.”
“So was I,” I continued. “After the Bloody Hex had come and gone. They left me behind. You can see how that might have given me cause to reconsider my previously steadfast loyalties.”
“And then, I imagine, Thatcher’s testimony wounded your pride. A hard knock, but I told you as much. You’re a weapon. Or a victim.” She lifted her latte for a drink before adding in a low voice, “Not that I buy that.”
As glad as I was that she didn’t believe it, I focused on keeping my expression stoic as I said, “Regardless. I don’t appreciate being controlled by anyone. Which is why I couldn’t accept your previous offer. Decades in jail waiting for a distant, unlikely redemption is a bad deal, no matter how you slice it.”
Holland cleared her throat and shifted in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Well, jail’s off the table.” A disappointment to her, from the looks of it. “So, what instead?”
The mug warmed my hands, a sensation as nostalgic as the bistro itself. “You said something about the investigative team.”
She coughed a laugh. “You want to be thrown to the wolves? Be my guest.”
Surprise must have shown on my face, prompting her to explain, “You’re a cop killer, Fitch. They hate you.”
“Ah, ah!” I ticked a finger at her. “No killers here. Just us innocent folks.”
Her posture went rigid as shades of her post-trial rage returned.
“Look,” she said. “If we’re going to have any kind of discussion, I want to keep the bullshit out of it. Nothing you can say will overturn the court’s decision, so let’s play this straight. Any investigator worth their salt would take a shot at you given the chance. And, if they managed to kill you, we would probably throw them a party. It’s not a crowd you want to mingle with. Oil and water. Understand?”
I understood. I didn’t want to fraternize with any of her badge-toting friends, and I knew the risks, besides. My life was in danger from more than Capitol workers with an ax to grind. It didn’t take police training to point a gun and shoot.
I decided not to press the comment about any decent investigator taking a shot at me. It bore consideration, though, since Holland was an investigator and hadn’t tried to put me down.
“So, what did you have in mind?” I swallowed a bit more of the Americano. “I hardly think you just gave me your card for my little black book.”
She held up a hand. “Before we get into that, tell me: what do you hope to gain from this? And how can I know you’re trustworthy? You’ve shown no signs of remorse and no interest in genuine change. Is it just a revenge plot? They hurt you, and now you want to hurt them back? Because I’m not interested in facilitating that.”
Our discussions in Thorngate’s visiting room were fresh enough in my mind that I could draw from them. She’d told me what she wanted to hear, so I would give her nothing less.
“We both know this should never have been my life,” I said. “The Bloody Hex changed everything about me. For the worse. I don’t know if I can ever go back, but I’d like to try. To make my father proud.”
She stared at me with her head cocked in open assessment until she said simply, “Don’t lie to me, Fitch.”
I threw up my hands. “What the fuck?” I blurted. “That’s exactly what you said before the trial. My dad was a great investigator. I could do what he did, be like him, yada yada.”
“Exactly. It’s what I said. When I was still clinging to an idealized view of who you’ve become. It’s taken some getting used to, but I think I’m figuring it out.”
Disappointment became the theme of the day. Be it from Grimm or the investigator, I couldn’t decide which bothered me more.
Holland lifted her mug to her lips and spoke through the rising steam. “What about your brother? Does leaving the gang mean leaving him behind?”
I swayed back, shaking my head. “Donnie’s been dead for years—”
“I thought that until the prison break, when I heard them say his name.”
Shit.
“You misheard, then.” I crossed my arms.
“I saw him, too.” Her brows furrowed, and sorrow welled up in her hazy eyes. “He looks so much like your mom.”
Double shit.
I could hardly convince her that she was wrong. As much as I’d wanted to leave Donovan out of this, it didn’t hurt to have assurances on both sides. That way, if Grimm failed to uphold his promise, I could cash in on Holland’s.
“Okay, yes. Donnie’s alive.” I sighed. “But he’s innocent. Really innocent, not like me. He thinks he wants to be in the gang and all that comes with it, but I want him out. If you help me get him away from Grimm and out of the city, somewhere safe, I’ll help you destroy the Bloody Hex once and for all.”
She chewed her lip while staring as though she could x-ray my thoughts. “That could be arranged,” she said .
Relief washed over me.
“And immunity,” I blurted the afterthought that should have been my first one considering my brother had murdered a man not twenty-four hours ago, and the phones that I destroyed may well have been livestreaming the whole ordeal.
Holland’s face pinched with fleeting suspicion as I added, “No one goes after him. Ever.”
She nodded. “Fine.”
“It’s a deal, then?” I extended my hand only for her to look down at it, unmoving.
“You’re a dangerous man, Fitch,” she said slowly. “You say you don’t want to be controlled, and I have thoughts about that. People feel like they need to control you because they don’t believe they can trust you.
“Out here—” she gestured to the bustling Main Street beyond the window—“without antimagic, or shackles, or prison cells—I can’t control you. I know that. So, I need assurance that I can trust you. Can I?”
Even I looked at my hand, then, hovering above the table, ready to close a deal I didn’t fully grasp.
Grimm wanted me to work with the Capitol. Keep close while he cozied up to Maximus Lyle. That ploy would end in Maximus’s death and Grimm’s succession to the would-be throne of our city. Teaming up with Holland meant delivering on my promise to take down the Hex. Maybe not all at once but, if she didn’t see progress, she would doubt my allegiance. And now Donovan was caught in the middle of it. Though, if Holland came through with her end of the bargain, I might sell my soul to the Capitol for good.
Ultimately, she had asked a question I didn’t want to answer because I took the notion of trust far more seriously than did Grimm or any of my criminal counterparts. From what I knew of Holland, she took it seriously, too.
My lengthy hesitation didn’t faze her or scare her off shaking my hand when I said at last, “You can trust me.”