Chapter Twenty-Five
Hodge
The Ledger had gotten what they came for. The second set of papers was gone, and Goldie’s sister was alive, though.
That fact should’ve made me feel better.
It didn’t.
I leaned back in one of the wooden chairs out front of the clubhouse and tipped the front legs off the concrete. The chair creaked beneath me as I balanced on two legs and stared out across the street.
The picture kept replaying in my head.
Not Gene getting his head blown off. I’d seen enough death in my life that it wasn’t the part sticking with me.
It was the damn picture of me.
Standing outside the clubhouse.
Why?
I ran through every possibility for what had to be the hundredth time. Was I standing where I shouldn’t have been? Did I know somebody they wanted? Had I missed something?
Nothing fit.
I scrubbed both hands over my face and let out a slow breath. “Think, asshole.”
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
The front door behind me opened, and I didn’t bother looking.
I knew the footsteps. Wheels.
He stopped beside me. “You coming in?”
“In a bit.”
“You’ve been sitting out here for an hour.”
“I know.”
He leaned against the doorframe. “You gonna tell me what’s going on in that thick skull of yours?”
I snorted. “Not much.”
“Bullshit.”
I looked over at him. “The picture.”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“Why me?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been trying to figure that out too.”
“You come up with anything?”
“No.” He started toward the door before looking back. “They’re trying to get in your head.”
I looked back toward the street. “They already did.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and I was alone again.
A cool breeze rolled down the street, rustling the trees lining the sidewalks. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone to check the time. I started to shove it back into my pocket when it started ringing.
Unknown Number.
Every muscle in my body tightened. I stared at it for two rings.
Three.
Four.
Slowly, I answered. “This is Hodge.”
Nothing. Not breathing. Not static.
Just silence.
I stood, and the chair legs smacked against the concrete behind me. “Who is this?” More silence.
Then a mechanical, distorted voice sounded. “You have forty-eight hours.” The line went dead.
“What?” I barked into the phone. I ripped it from my ear and looked it. The call had ended.
Just four words.
You have forty-eight hours.
For fucking what?