Chapter 7 #2
“Meet us at the Prancing Goat Cafe in fifteen minutes,” I squeeze out of my lungs, a harsh whisper of painful words, barely audible.
Walker slams the door in the cop’s face, spinning to see me panting beside him. “Are you sure now’s the right time for this?” he asks.
I nod, even though I know it’s going to be a struggle.
Clara got therapy while in Mexico, her Spanish good enough for her to muddle through.
Trips and I weren’t so lucky. And after a simple explanation of Jansen’s problems, Maria told Clara that he needed drugs more than talking, so she couldn’t take him on.
This semester has proved the woman right.
“Let me go grab my stuff,” I wheeze out.
Shoving my laptop and a flash drive into a bag, I meet Walker on the front porch, the wind cold for the first time since we returned from Mexico.
It’s a reminder that the worst is yet to come.
We’re silent on the walk over.
I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever have enough to send the cops after Trips’ brother.
I want Trevor out of that house, away from Clara.
She’s gotten stronger, bolder, fierce in a way that hardly mirrors who she was a year ago, but still—she was scared when she spoke of her run-in with Trips’ brother.
Whether he’s just that dangerous or he’s dragged all her trauma to the forefront, I don’t know. And I don’t care. I just want him gone.
We make it to Clara’s old coffee shop, the cop waiting at a corner table in his street clothes, his grim face and shorn head making people wary.
They might not know what he is, but they sense he doesn’t belong at a campus haunt.
I order tea, some strange part of me wanting it because Jansen isn’t here with us, and leave Walker to wait for his drink at the counter.
When I take my first sip a few moments later, I burn my tongue on the taste of grass. Yuck.
The cop waits for me, respecting my silence. Pulling out my laptop, I meet his gaze over the top. “This is from Clara, not me,” I say, both of us knowing it’s bullshit.
“Of course,” he says, sipping from his cardboard cup and scanning the room for threats.
“How big of a fish can you catch?” I ask as Walker slides into the chair beside me, a pencil tucked behind his ear.
“How big of a fish has Clara found?”
“Big enough to make national news. With deep enough pockets that it’ll put up one hell of a fight.”
His eyes flash with something like avarice. Having dug into the man, I know he’s an honest cop, but with a fierce competitive streak that leans toward obsession.
“Is it a name I’d recognize?”
“Yes.”
He hisses, setting his cup down on the table. “How many victims?”
“At least six that I can find.”
His eyes snap to mine. “Are there more?”
“I don’t know. Clara can’t tell. Based on what I know of the family, though, it’s not improbable.”
Bringing Clara back into the conversation leaves the cop confused, leaning back in his chair, looking between me and Walker. “Where is she?”
“Do you follow society news?” Walker asks, pulling up the engagement announcement and handing his phone to the cop with less caution than I’d prefer.
Reed’s nostrils flare. “Fucking Westerhouses.”
“Not all of them are shit. Just most of them,” Walker says, holding out his hand for his phone. I catch sight of Clara on the screen, frozen in a caricature of the woman I love.
The cop closes his eyes, the weight of his indecision lying between us as I take another sip of the tea.
I officially hate it and have no idea how Jansen stomachs the stuff.
While he contemplates his next move, I pull out the thumb drive, filling it with information on a couple of small fish I’ve nailed down. “So?” I prompt.
He leans forward. “Which one?”
“Representative Trevor Westerhouse.”
“Fuck.”
I unplug the thumb drive. “Here are some other leads. Smaller fish.”
“I have to be careful who I work this with. A fish like that…”
“You’re right, you do. The elder Westerhouse has ears in several precincts. I’ve found some of them, but I can’t be sure I’ve found all of them. Not yet, anyway. In a few months, I can probably give you a complete list.”
He looks at me as if I’ve grown antlers. “Who’s dirty?”
“Marshall, Ben Nelson, and Graves, so far.”
His face locks somewhere between disgust and disbelief. “Who the fuck are you, kid?”
“Just a guy trying to keep his girl safe,” I say, stashing my laptop and getting to my feet, Walker doing the same.
“I don’t understand what you guys have going on,” he says.
“You don’t have to,” Walker replies. “It’s none of your damn business.”
“Catching criminals is my business.”
“Good thing we’re not criminals, only college students,” Walker replies, tossing his cup into the garbage, my full one joining it a moment later.
“Right. And I’m Batman.”
“Wouldn’t you be more like Commissioner Gordon?” I ask before I can stop the unnecessary correction.
“Fuck you, kid,” he says, Walker chuckling as he pulls me out the door.
Another ball rolling. Another moving part of this impossible puzzle Clara’s certain we can solve. Something else to monitor until it’s the right time to pull the lever.
A win, even when everything feels like a loss.