20. Artemis
20 ARTEMIS
Present
“There you are.” Apollo strides across the rooftop restaurant, looking irritatingly put together.
His hair is damp, and his t-shirt, dark-blue board shorts, and sandals are really not suited for the cool autumn morning.
I, on the other hand, am bundled in Kade’s sweatshirt, gray sweatpants, and moccasins with fuzzy insides.
About as comfortable as I can be when my mind is not .
Antonio and I are set to have our regular employee meeting in a few hours, but I came in early to do some reports.
And the kitchen here is much more stocked than mine.
A half-eaten omelet sits next to my elbow.
My coffee was just replenished, and my laptop is open in front of me.
We’re in Distraction Mode.
Hard . Because I don’t want to have to think about the memories that assaulted me last night.
I stayed in my room until it sounded like Saint had left, the bang of the door shutting hard giving me a modicum of peace.
And then, when I couldn’t resist anymore, I tried to sleep.
Nightmares.
I think I’m more tired today than yesterday—and that’s saying something.
Apollo drops into the chair across from me, grabbing the plate with the omelet.
He smirks at me, but I just wave for him to help himself.
He digs in, not quite as much as a heathen as one of his friends.
Wolfe, actually, is the worst of them.
Watching him when he’s hungry is like watching an actual starving wolf.
“What brings you here?” I ask, bracing my chin on my hand.
My eyes ache from staring at the screen.
And probably not sleeping, too.
That’s more of a plausible culprit, on second thought.
I absently rub at one.
Normally I wouldn’t, but today I ran out of the house without an ounce of makeup.
Strange of me.
“Saint said you were out of sorts.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Oh, did he?”
“Are you?” His brows pinch.
“Out of sorts?”
“No—”
“Because if it’s that Reese guy, or Kade?—”
“I’m fine.” I close my laptop.
“I’m one hundred percent fine.”
Lies .
I’m just as bad as Saint, pretending I’m fine and hiding my wounds so I can lick them in private.
But then he goes and rats me out to my brother?
“You know he still thinks about joining Nyx,” I tell him.
My brother swears.
“So maybe you shouldn’t believe what he says, because he’s just trying to get out of my life. If only Jace would let him…”
He gives me a weird look but doesn’t comment on it.
Maybe he doesn’t know that Jace asked Saint to move in with me?
Maybe he thinks it was my idea?
Gross.
I wrinkle my nose and gulp the rest of my coffee.
As soon as he finishes the omelet, I collect the plate with my mug and take them to the kitchen.
It’s even cooler in here without the stoves and ovens on for the day.
The prep cooks will come in soon, and then the waitstaff for our meeting will get fed lunch.
A perk of coming in early…
or a bribe so everyone shows up.
Even Antonio isn’t here yet.
The doors swing inward, and Apollo crosses the threshold.
He comes right up to where I’m washing the dish and leans a hip on the sink counter.
“Are you trying to hide from me?”
I scowl.
“No.”
“Okay, then talk to me. Please, Tem.”
“I’m fine.” I eye him.
“I don’t know what you want me to say. There’s a lot of shit going on, but it’s not all directly correlated to me.”
He sighs.
Pinches the bridge of his nose.
“The sheriff wants to get a warrant and search this place.”
“He already made that perfectly clear, thank you.”
“He—”
“I do not want to talk about Nathan Bradshaw and warrants and dead bodies,” I snap.
“I just want to do my work and prepare for this meeting and then go home.”
It never works out that way, though.
Apollo raises his hands in surrender, but that never means what I think it means.
And true enough, he takes a seat at the bar and fiddles on his phone in silence.
Seemingly convinced that I’m not well enough to leave unattended, watching me out of the corner of his eye.
Eventually, the prep cooks come in, and slowly the rest of the staff arrive, too.
Antonio joins me at our table, a stack of papers in his hands.
“Inventory,” he says.
“And the schedule.”
“Perfect.” I take the pages and flip through, scanning the numbers.
It seems in order, and also in line with the end of the tourist season.
“Nice sweatshirt,” he comments.
I glance down.
It’s clean, washed, and unfortunately back to the scent of laundry detergent.
After Saint pushed me off the cliff, I couldn’t very well leave it salty.
There’s an embroidered emblem on the breast, an eye with a snake poised to strike behind and over it.
I hadn’t given it much thought, to be honest.
But now I frown, because…
I don’t know.
I’m not taking it off, though.
“I wanted to be comfortable,” I murmur, tapping the sheaf of papers on the table.
“Do you have a problem with that?”
“Not in the slightest.” He raises an eyebrow.
“I wasn’t judging, Tem.”
“Uh-huh.” I stand, and our staff goes quiet.
I’m glad I don’t have to yell for them to shut up.
“Good morning,” I call.
“Better to get the work over with so you guys can have a good lunch, right?”
They voice their assent, and my gaze flicks to Apollo.
He’s watching me a little closer now.
I push my shoulders back and lift my chin.
It doesn’t matter what he thinks—I’ll prove that I’m fine.
Nightmares, dead bodies, and new gangs or not.
Nathan Bradshaw’s house is small, tidy, and tucked into a bustling neighborhood of East Falls.
It’s close to the Financial District and downtown, where his offices are, and I think he came to some sort of agreement with the Hell Hounds to leave his particular block alone.
Not that they mess with anyone, really.
Okay, they totally do.
But not on Nathan Bradshaw’s street.
I leave my car at the corner and stroll down the sidewalk, my hands in my pockets.
He should be at work, which is why I’m choosing broad daylight to make my move.
The street is quiet, most people still working at this time of day.
When I’m two houses away from his, I cut down a driveway and into a backyard.
People in this neighborhood don’t fence their yards, which has always felt strange to me.
West Falls is totally different.
But here, there’s the slightest bit more breathing room between the houses, and the yards all seem to mesh into one another.
It makes crossing them to get to his back door easier anyway.
I climb the steps to his back porch and crouch, flipping the mat up.
The sheriff is too fucking predictable, and a key gleams at me.
I unlock the door, then pocket it.
Silence.
There’s no beeping alarm, no scuffle of claws on the floor.
Nothing.
I’ve been here twice before, but always with others.
And never on the assumption of Nathan Bradshaw’s guilt.
There’s a little stack of dishes in the sink, and unopened mail on the counter.
I take back the tidy part of my description.
It doesn’t matter, though, because catching him with dirty dishes isn’t my goal.
I’m here looking for evidence of corruption.
Nathan Bradshaw has been known to take a bribe or two in his day.
In fact, just a few years ago he would’ve been labeled a bad guy by some.
My brother, for one.
I draw my knife from my ankle and clear the house, making sure no one’s going to leap out at me from the closet or from behind a door.
He has an office-slash-guest room, his room, and one bathroom in the hall.
Living room, laundry room, kitchen.
That’s it.
And besides the kitchen, it’s relatively clean.
I start with his mail, flipping through it for anything that can catch my eye.
There’s nothing except some overdue bills, magazine subscriptions, and a letter from Nadine.
His sister.
There are a few envelopes with the local funeral home listed as the return address, and I pause.
I set those down carefully.
It sucks to lose a parent, and Nathan Bradshaw’s dad…
Well, I met him once, too.
He was nice, as far as I could tell.
Moving into his home office, I first try my luck with the filing cabinets.
They’re locked.
Naturally .
Even someone who hides a key in the most obvious place would lock up their sensitive documents.
My curiosity burns, but I can’t waste valuable time trying to pick the lock.
Not if I expect to search the whole house…
but the locked cabinet certainly draws my attention.
Desk is next.
There’s not a lot in there, however.
Printed phone records—which I scan, but the name of the person isn’t on the sheet, and none of the numbers jump out at me at first glance.
Two are highlighted, though.
I frown and take a picture of it.
He has a safe in the bottom drawer.
Maybe for his gun?
I reach for the last drawer, a large one on the opposite side, just as a car door shuts—too close.
I peek out the window and immediately duck.
Nathan Bradshaw is home.
Fuck .
I dart for the closet.
Since it’s a guest bedroom, it still has one.
And lucky for me, it’s relatively empty.
I pull the door shut softly, and the front door creaks open a split second later.
Not good .
I glance down at myself.
Did I leave anything on the counter?
Did I leave the back door open?
The key is still in my pocket, but I’m fairly sure I flipped the mat back down.
If not… I’m about to have a gun shoved in my face.
I just know it.
The sheriff moves around his house.
He’s talking to someone, although I didn’t hear a second person enter.
And it’s a one-sided conversation.
“Yes, I have it.” His voice drifts closer.
“I told you I would get it. I have it here.”
Pause .
“No, you absolutely cannot come to my house. I’ll meet you. Tonight.”
Pause .
“Yes, that’s fine.” He’s in the room now, opening a drawer and closing it again.
The rustle of papers.
“No, six o’clock—because when I get out of work, I’m leaving my badge at home. I’m not meeting you in my fucking uniform.”
I hold perfectly still, but my line of sight through the crack in the door allows me to see him holding the highlighted paper.
He unlocks the top drawer of the filing cabinet, and he…
He puts that in there.
Locks it.
“I hear you,” he says.
My heart stops.
“I understand your concern,” he continues, still on the phone.
“But I’m doing my job, and I expect to be fucking compensated.”
His voice drifts farther away, and I release a slow breath when his cruiser’s engine starts.
I wait another minute, then slowly creep out of the closet.
I go straight to the filing cabinet and yank uselessly at the top drawer.
Whatever it is, someone wants that.
And it was pure luck that I found it in the first place.
I pull up the photo and again scour the page.
The two highlighted numbers aren’t marked, but they are different.
One call is logged from two weeks ago, and it lasted thirty seconds.
The other number called a month ago, and it lasted three minutes and four seconds.
There hasn’t been much activity on whoever’s account this is since then.
Before I can think it through, I dial the older number.
I add the digits to the beginning that will block my number.
It doesn’t even ring.
Just a robot voice saying, “This number is no longer in service.”
I try the next one, expecting the same.
But I almost drop my phone when it does ring through—and then again when it picks up.
“Who is this?” a familiar voice demands. I hang up.