Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jax
Detective Layton is thirty-five, single, and the son of a mother who died from overdose.
He spent his teen years in a group home, served four years in the Marines, and then applied to be a cop.
He made detective two years ago in Virginia and transferred to Cloverwick three months ago.
Why he transferred here, I don’t have a clue.
But Damon in evidence said he hasn’t been given a warm welcome—no chummy poker nights, no friendly heads-up about which files to leave alone—and has only been thrown petty theft cases since coming here, which seems right on par with being tasked with finding Marshal.
Marshal Wayne was not popular.
“Do you think he knows?” Caleb asks, knee bobbing in the passenger seat as I put the Hellcat in drive.
We’ve been parked across the street from the Cloverwick Police Department for the last three hours, and Layton has just climbed into his unmarked cruiser with the intent of someone with a lead, and I intend to let him lead us right to it. Hopefully, it’s another suspect.
“Yes.” I don’t sugarcoat it as I throw an arm over the passenger headrest and back out.
Layton most definitely knows that Marshal is dead.
I meant what I said when I told Kira she did a good job, but that doesn’t mean we weren’t highly obvious in our antics.
And a detective with a suspicion is a dog with a bone.
If he has CCTV of Marshal heading toward Kira’s neighborhood, that’s good enough for him to keep digging.
“Oh, fuck.” Caleb braces his hands on the dash and hangs his head. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am.”
“Not in my car you aren’t.” I keep my eyes on Layton.
This little excursion is meant to toughen Caleb up.
If he wants to help pretty girls hide bodies, he needs to know everything that comes along with it.
The paranoia. The pressure. The way your brain starts running constant calculations—who knows what, what cameras were where, what kind of thread you left behind.
It’s never just burning the body. You don’t just clean up a mess and go back to your life.
So yeah, if he wants to be the white knight for a girl with bloody hands? Fine. But he’s going to learn that this isn’t as easy as I make it look.
“Yeah,” I draw out the word. “They’re going to like you in prison.”
“Fuck.” His voice is haggard.
“Me?” I continue, trying to lay on the pressure so he gets stronger. “I’m going to be just fine. But you? You’ll be passed around like—” His shoulders suddenly hunch, as if he’s really going to hurl, and I groan. “Jesus, I’m kidding. No one’s going to prison. Sit up.”
He lifts his head slowly. “We aren’t?”
I roll my eyes. “Landons don’t get locked up. You’d know this if you’d ever stepped out of line before.”
He sits up, a bit green in the face. “Hiding a body isn’t stepping out of line enough for you?”
I take my eyes off of Layton’s bumper to cut him a flat look.
“Right.” He nods. “You mean fights or drugs or—”
“Don’t do drugs.”
“So just fights?”
I give his arms a glance. “Yeah, maybe not that either.”
He has the build of a normal, lean teenager, but he’s definitely not working on bulking up like I was at his age. That Landon growth spurt can border on lanky if you’re not careful.
Dejected, he leans back and looks out the window while we tail Layton, picking at the skin around his nails.
“Nix thinks I’m strong,” he mutters after a minute.
“Nix Noland?” I huff a laugh. “The girl who wears combat boots? She called you strong?” I whistle, impressed.
Nix Noland may be five-foot-nothing to Caleb’s six-one, but it’s not physical strength that has me whistling.
She could chew Caleb up and spit him out.
At first, I thought maybe she was using him because girls like that don’t go for guys like my brother.
But getting a peek into her home life with Kira, I can see the appeal.
Caleb is soft, something someone who’s only endured hardship would appreciate. And Nix Noland has probably dealt with more hardship than one should. She probably craves his gentleness, clings to it even.
But Kira? Kira’s not looking for softness.
She didn’t have herself as an older sister, she did it on her own. And she’s angry. The kind of angry that sits under your skin and simmers, just waiting for someone to burn. She’s survived too much to crave peace.
And she wants someone to take it out on.
She can take it out on me—all night, every night, until the fight drains from her body and she’s too exhausted to keep swinging.
She can claw, bite, scream—hell, she can put a knife to my throat—and I’ll let her.
I’ll stand there and take it because I know it’s not really me she’s angry at.
It’s everyone who failed her. And I can bear her anger. I can be her punching bag.
I’ll take it.
I’ll take all of it.
Just like she took all of me.
“Isn’t that the bar Kira works at?” Caleb asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
Taking my eyes off Layton’s bumper—four cars ahead and one lane over—I look around and, sure enough, one block ahead is the Bell’s sign, dingy in the daylight. The letters are flickering, only half working, and the tinted windows show the bubbles of age.
“Shit,” I curse.
I had hoped that maybe he had some other lead, some other possible suspect, but unfortunately, he’s predictable. Dog with a bone.
Anticipating his move, I hook a left and pull into a convenience store on the opposite side of the street. It has a vantage point on Bell’s and a busy parking lot to blend into.
“He’s pulling in,” Caleb says, as if I’m not aware. “He’s parking. Shit. He’s parking.”
“Little less obvious, brother.” I eye the way he’s leaning onto the dash, face almost smashed against the windshield.
“Oh.” He frowns. “Right.” He pulls his hands off the leather like it’s burned him.
Putting the car into park, I cut the engine and lean back, already exhausted with this. I hate having to deal with the police, but it seems like that’s exactly what I’m going to have to do.
Almost every cop walks around like they’re above the rest of us, like a badge gives them permission to hold their chin high—proof they’re righteous.
But they’re not gods. They don’t walk on water.
They skate on thin fucking ice. And all it takes is the right tap—a number, a threat, a favor—and suddenly they’re dick-deep in corruption, no better than the people they pretend to stand above.
Still, they fight it. Clutch that tin-starred moral compass like it’s a life vest, like it’ll keep them afloat. And I hate how long it takes to find the cracks worth tapping.
“He’s getting out,” Caleb says. “Oh God, he’s going inside.”
Layton disappears inside Bell’s dark entry, and I rub my chin. It would be easier and quicker to just go to James. One call to the captain and this investigation gets shut down. But all that does is trade one problem for another.
For some reason—probably future blackmail—Arnold hasn’t tipped James off to Kira’s existence. But he probably can’t piece together how to use it against me yet.
“What do you think he’s doing?” Caleb asks, hands back on the dashboard.
“Nailing down Kira’s whereabouts on the night Marshal went missing,” I drawl absently, still weighing the consequences of letting James in on this.
Sure, he would have the investigation shut down based on the pure fact that Caleb was involved, and that would get the police off Kira and Nix’s backs, but that doesn’t get them out of hot water. James would want them dealt with—want the loose ends tied into a neat bow.
The options are prison or death.
Unless I can get Detective Layton to fuck off on my own. And killing him isn’t an option, as much as that’s my first go-to. The case will just be passed on to the next idiot, along with the mounting suspicion of another dead cop.
“Damn it,” I sigh.
“What? Is this really bad?” Caleb turns to me.
“Depends,” I say, keeping my eyes fixed on Bell’s. “Do you think our detective likes to skate?”