Chapter 34 #2
Tournament tags—club name, dates, winners. They’re clipped together, and the back piece is engraved Elizabeth Delacroix.
Must’ve fallen out of her bag.
I glance back at the club. I could drop them at the front desk, but this is better—a neutral excuse to cross her threshold if I ever need context again. If she’s not home, I’ll leave them in her mailbox. No pressure, just consideration. Favor banked.
Thanks to Quinn’s dossier, I have her address.
She asked me to stay away, but this is a favor.
The Delacroix house sits in a well-heeled neighborhood—nothing like the distinguished wealth on Richard Whitmore’s street, but close enough that the same landscapers probably do both. Two-story colonials line the road, smaller lots, smaller houses, still plenty of money.
I pull into her drive and knock. A dog barks, big and deep, from somewhere inside. No footsteps follow.
Her car’s not in the drive, so I head back down to the curbside mailbox. The habit is ingrained: eyes up, scan the street, check for watchers.
That’s when I see him.
Four houses down, in a sedan that absolutely does not belong to this ZIP Code, a man sits behind the wheel.
He’s the same guy I saw arguing with Jessica outside a café near Alicia’s office.
He’s parked in a way that gives him a view of both the Delacroix place and anyone circling the block.
It’s not the worst surveillance spot, but it’s not the best either.
Feels like someone who knows just enough to be dangerous.
I open the mailbox, slide the tournament disks on top of the waiting mail, and close it again.
With one eye on the sedan, I type out a quick text to Elizabeth:
Found your tournament tags near the court. Dropped them in your mailbox. Thought you might want them back.
She lives close to the club. With any luck, she’ll chalk it up to thoroughness, not intrusion.
I get back into the Rivian, idle forward, and as I pass the sedan, snap a photo of the driver. I don’t bother being subtle. He makes a show of looking down at something in his lap. Could be his phone. Could be an act.
I roll another fifty yards, then stop at the corner, lean out the window, and take a second shot—this time of his license plate.
That one he definitely notices.
Good.
Because my gut says he’s not tailing me. He’s tailing Alicia’s car. Checking where she goes. Who she meets. Maybe he’s been tracking her longer than we realized, and this is just the first time I’ve caught him in the act.
I send the tag photo to Quinn with a request to run it, then point the Rivian toward the shabbier side of town.
The PI who ran a background check on me works out of a strip of aging offices that rent by the month—massage, sketchy tax prep, fax-and-print shops clinging to relevance. His door’s open. He’s at his computer when I step in, shoulders hunched, light from the monitor washing his face in blue.
“What’re you doing here?” he asks, fingers twitching on the mouse. I’d bet good money he just closed whatever screen he didn’t want me to see. “I told you—I’m not telling you who hired me.”
I hold my phone out, the picture of the sedan driver filling the screen. “You don’t have to. This guy hired you.”
His eyes flick to the image. His jaw works. “If you already know, what’re you doing here?”
If I were wrong, he’d gloat. This is the type who loves to tell you you’re barking up the wrong tree. Instead, he takes a long pull from his soda through a straw and swivels back to the monitor.
“You here to harass me?” he asks, feigning boredom.
“Nope.”
I walk out, satisfied I’ve got confirmation.
On the sidewalk outside, my phone vibrates.
“Found the guy,” Quinn says when I answer.
“And?” I ask, already sliding behind the wheel.
“Name’s Danny Frazier.”
“Don’t know him,” I say. “But I saw him arguing with Jessica outside a café near Alicia’s office.”
“I’m looking at his record,” she says, voice tightening. “He’s got a rap sheet. Three separate possession charges. One for prescription fraud. Avoided jail on the last one by agreeing to rehab.”
“Type of drugs?” I ask.
“Five years ago—heroin. More recently—opioid prescriptions. Oxy, mostly.”
I stare through the windshield, processing. Addict. Access issues. Desperation. And Jessica’s a pharmaceutical rep. That’s one hell of a Venn diagram.
“And he’s sitting outside the Delacroix house watching Alicia’s car,” I say. “He wasn’t there by chance. The PI confirmed he’s the one who hired him—shoved a photo in his face.”
“I’ll dig for a connection to Jessica,” Quinn says. “Employment overlaps, prescriptions, social links. Anything.”
“Do that,” I say. The pieces are starting to form the outline of something ugly. “We’re onto something here, Quinn. This isn’t coincidence.”
I end the call, pulse thrumming with something that feels a lot like hope—and a darker, sharper edge that feels like we’ve finally brushed fingers against whoever decided Alicia Morgan was expendable—and right now, that person is looking a lot like someone with a personal vendetta.
The obvious question circles my mind—Is Richard involved? Is Jessica doing him favors?