42. Delaney
DELANEY
I don’t go back to him.
Not right away.
I feel him behind me as I leave the room. The weight of his attention. The pull of it.
I ignore it.
I have to.
Because if I turn back I won’t be thinking clearly. And right now, thinking clearly is the only thing I have.
I walk into the main room and stop. The place is so quiet.
Like nothing happened here.
Like we didn’t just—
I cut the thought off.
I wish I had my notes. My folders. But I do have my phone, and all the information on my laptop and iPad is on my cell as well.
I go upstairs, take a quick shower—not in Samson’s bedroom but in the guest room—and find a soft robe to pull on over my underwear.
Then I grab my phone.
Crap, it’s nearly dead. I scour the guest suite, looking for a charger. Yes! I find one in the nightstand drawer. I plug it in, connect my phone, and then sit on the lush bed as I pull up the information I have.
Halstead.
I keep my feelings neutral as I read the name. That’s how it has to stay.
I look through the information I have. God, I know most of it by heart now. And I don’t see anything that—
I stop at a photo attached to a report. I don’t remember putting it there, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’ve been moving fast. Collecting and sorting. Not everything stays where I left it.
I zoom in.
It’s the marina at night, grainy and distorted, clearly pulled from a security capture.
It shows the dock. The water. And two figures. They’re not close to the edge. Not yet. No sign of anyone else yet.
I stare at it longer than I should.
Because something about it—
No.
I shift my focus.
The closer figure could be Halstead. His position matches what Samson said.
The second figure is harder to make out.
Smaller, maybe. Narrower through the shoulders. Turned slightly away, as if already leaving.
I tighten my grip on the phone and stare at the image.
The second figure turns just enough that the light catches something near the throat.
A reflection.
Small, and split into two faint points.
The image is too blurry to prove anything. It could be a zipper pull. A button. A trick of the marina lights on wet fabric.
But my hand goes to my own throat before I can stop it.
I close my fingers around my pendant.
The scales.
Mine is silver.
My mother’s was gold.
No.
I don’t move.
Don’t blink.
Just stare.
Because if I look away, I might lose it.
Or worse, I might have to admit what I’m seeing.
The recognition sits just under the surface. Close enough to feel but not close enough to name, like when you have a word on the tip of your tongue.
Someone was with him before the confrontation.
Someone left before the brothers reached him.
Someone who might have been wearing a gold pendant shaped like the silver one currently burning against my skin.
I swipe to the next attachment. A handwritten note.
Subject arrived early. Not alone. Secondary presence confirmed prior to contact. Possible interference. Note: H. referenced “my girl” prior to engagement.
I read it again.
Then again.
“My girl,” I whisper.
It feels familiar. I’ve heard it before.
My mother’s voice—
No.
That’s not relevant.
That’s not useful.
That’s not—
I set the phone down.
My breathing is too fast. I force it to slow.
In.
Out.
Again.
The phrase doesn’t mean anything. People say things like that. Men say things like that about wives, girlfriends, daughters, granddaughters.
He could have meant anything.
The second figure could have been anyone.
I push away any emotion and catalog only what I actually know.
Halstead arrived early.
A secondary presence was confirmed before contact. That person appears to have left before the confrontation.
Halstead referenced “my girl.”
That’s it.
That’s all.
There is nothing here that proves my mother was at the marina.
There is nothing here that proves Halstead was talking about me.
There is nothing here that changes the investigation.
Except it changes everything.
I reach for my pendant again and close my fingers around the tiny silver scales.
My mother’s was gold. I remember that now with brutal clarity. Gold against her throat. Gold catching the light when she leaned over me.
If she were alive, I could ask her.
Were you there?
Did you meet him?
Did he call me that?
Did he give you something?
Did you know?
But she isn’t alive. I have no one to ask. All I have is a grainy image that may or may not show the moment my mother walked away from Victor Halstead for the last time.
My throat tightens.
No.
I won’t do this.
I won’t put those two words in the same space.
Halstead.
Father.
They don’t belong together.
They don’t even touch.
I make sure of it.
I put the phone down when I hear movement outside the guestroom door.
Samson.
He’s still here, of course.
Still watching.
Still holding things back.
Fine.
If he won’t tell me everything, I’ll find it myself. And this time I won’t wait for him to decide I’m ready.
I know who I need to see.