19. CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ETHAN
“ D id you hear about Mateo Hernandez?” Detective Beckett asks Lieutenant Mullens as I finish typing up a report. She’s drinking her protein shake and standing against the edge of the cubicle that separates me from my lieutenant’s office.
“How could I not? It’s all over the news,” he says, deep voice booming, as he saunters out into the hallway. He’s tall and in his midthirties, but he’s already sporting a round belly.
“Do you think they’ll let him out?” she asks.
Lieutenant Mullens stops beside her and eyes me. “Tate. What do you think?”
I lift a brow and hum while I take Beckett’s question into consideration. All I know about the case is that Hernandez was one of the largest drug distributors in the nation until he got himself locked up for an accidental warehouse fire, which killed his wife and half a dozen or more of his associates, in Texas three years ago. Supposedly, he’s also responsible for a series of other warehouse fires that plagued New Mexico and Arizona in the early 2000s, resulting in more than a hundred deaths. The FBI found four witnesses willing to testify with information that could put him behind bars for the rest of his life. Currently, he’s in a maximum-security prison in Colorado, waiting for trial.
“Claiming habeas corpus is a desperate move, but he’s not stupid,” I say. “He has to know that at the very least, he’ll be convicted of manslaughter.”
Mullens chuckles. “You’re right. He ain’t stupid, which is why I think he’s trying to draw the last two out. Using it as a scare tactic. A way to force their hands.”
He’s talking about the witness protection program. The first witness, a supplier who denied the FBI’s help, was found slaughtered less than two months after Mateo’s arrest. The second witness, a distributor, survived longer. But even behind bars, Mateo Hernandez has all sorts of connections. Last month, Tony was found with his eyes cut out.
“I don’t understand. He’s made so many enemies. Wouldn’t he want to lay low at this point? If they drop charges to involuntary manslaughter, he’ll be transferred to minimum security, which puts him at risk of being shanked,” Beckett says.
“Minimum security means an easier escape, which I’m sure is being planned out as we speak.”
“You gentlemen talking about Mateo Hernandez?” The chief sidles up next to Mullens, dressed in civilian clothes.
“Ahem,” Beckett clears her throat.
“Sorry,” he says, wincing. “Gentlemen and lady.”
“We are,” Beckett replies, leaning in to give her dad a peck on the cheek.
“Do me a favor and catch up on as much of the case as you can. It looks like the third witness was just exposed.”
He slaps an assortment of photos down on my desk.
“Clara Owens, otherwise known as Roberta Santiago, Mateo’s personal assistant. She was found dead in her home just south of Charleston last night. The FBI hasn’t released the information to the public yet. They’re handling the case, but I’d rather we all be up on the details. I don’t need anyone coming in here saying we didn’t do our due diligence.”
“How did she…” Beckett picks up a photo and gasps.
“Somebody cut out her eyes, dumped a large amount of fentanyl into the cavities, and then sewed the skin back up postmortem.”
At the end of my otherwise uneventful shift, I check my phone and find three missed messages from an unknown number. I click on the thread, and a grin immediately takes over my face. The first message is a picture of a tire. The second one reads Thanks . And the third one says This is Kinzie, by the way. In case you didn’t know, what, with all the flat tires you change before the sun is up. But for real, thank you .
I type out a quick response.
Me: No problem. It was nothing .
After I click Send, I type out another.
Me: By the way, this is Ethan. Still planning to pick you up at six .
I meander down the streets of Hope Island, feeling more relaxed and at ease than I have in a long time. When I get home, I take a quick shower and change into a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a long-sleeve cotton T-shirt.
As I’m stuffing my wallet and keys into my pocket, my phone dings with a text message from my sister.
Jill: Wear your blue shirt. And loosen up tonight. Have some fun.
Grinning, I assess my blue shirt in the mirror.
Me: You realize this isn’t a real date, right?
Jill: Real. Not real. Not much of a difference from my point of view. Either way, you’re allowed to enjoy yourself.
I laugh. This is definitely not real. But I will have fun.
“Oh, thank goodness. You’re wearing pants” are the first words out of Kinzie’s mouth when she opens the door.
Dipping my chin, I make a show of double-checking that she’s right. “As opposed to…?”
“I meant that you’re not too dressed up.” She blushes. “I wasn’t sure what to wear, so I opted for jeans too.” She runs her hands up and down the sides of her thighs. She’s wearing a pair of straight-leg jeans and a soft pink cotton T-shirt that’s tucked in at the waist.
“How many suitcases do we have? I can call Larry for more if we need them.” Tessa speeds past but manages an abrupt stop when she sees me standing in the entrance. “Hey. Where are you two going tonight?”
Kinzie turns at the sound of her sister’s voice.
“It’s a surprise,” I say, brushing my hand down Kinzie’s back from her shoulder blades down to her waist.
Tessa catches my movement and smirks.
My heart stops. Shit. I didn’t plan that for Tessa’s sake. The move was unconscious, a natural gesture when it comes to Kinzie, who, I realize, didn’t even flinch at the contact.
“Are you ready?” I ask, ensuring my voice is thick and husky.
She swallows audibly in front of me. “Yup. I just need to grab my shoes.” The softness of her tone hits me straight in the chest.
“I’ll go grab them,” Tessa says without missing a beat. “You wait right here.”
As she steps away, I call out to her. “Can you grab her a pair of socks while you’re at it?”
“The bowling alley?” Kinzie huffs in disbelief when we pull up to Bowl-a-rama Paradise. “I haven’t been here since we were in high school. I’m shocked they’re still open.”
My chest warms at the memories of our time here together back then. “I haven’t really been here myself, other than to bust up a fight or two.”
She rounds the hood of my truck and meets me in front of it, her eyes wide. “A fight? Here?”
“They serve alcohol now, so fights happen pretty regularly. Do you want to know who was involved in the first one I ever had to break up?” I ask, dipping in close with a conspiratorial smirk.
“Absolutely,” she says without skipping a beat.
“Caroline Reed, the librarian and…” I pause, letting the silence add to the suspense. When she tilts her head and leans in closer, I whisper, “Your mom.”
Kinzie’s mouth drops. “My mom and Caroline?”
Nodding, I reach for her hand and pull her forward, leading her to the entrance. “From what I recall, they started off talking about their jobs. Bickering about who had it tougher. Then it turned into Caroline swearing up and down that your mom wasn’t who she said she was. They were pretty drunk.”
When we open the doors, loud country music fills the air. It’s crowded with what looks to be an all-female league off to the left with women in shirts that say things like Ball Busters and Livin’ on a Spare.
Kinzie’s expression is full of trepidation as she scans the group. “My mom isn’t here right now, is she?”
“No,” I say, keeping my voice easy, even as confusion tugs at me. Tessa made a comment the other night about their mom, about Kinzie not forgiving her.
“How can you be so sure?” she hisses as we approach the counter. She curls in on herself, her shoulders rounding and her head lowered, as if to make herself small and unnoticeable.
Deacon, the owner’s son, who is a year younger than I am, is pulling shoes for another couple, so I turn to Kinzie. “Because Caroline and your mom were issued citations specifying that they couldn’t return until they fixed that.” I nod toward an empty display case against the wall that once housed trophies, plaques, and medals.
Kinzie stills, blinking slowly. There’s a story there, I can see, but I decide not to ask about it. Not yet, at least.
“Kinsley Grant? Is that you?” Deacon asks when the couple in front of us steps away with their shoes. There’s shock in his voice, but he’s grinning from ear to ear, and I’m pretty sure there are stars in his eyes.
“Deacon?” Kinzie’s body relaxes. “Holy Shit.”
He flips up the hinged countertop and pushes through the small opening that separates him from the general public. And then he’s sweeping Kinzie, quite literally, off her feet. She presses into him, and instantly, hot rage courses through me.
“Damn, Kinsley,” he says, calling her by her full name when he lowers her to her feet. He threads his fingers through his dark hair. “Wow. You look great. Where have you been hiding all these years?”
The two of them dive into conversation, catching up and completely ignoring my presence. Their intimate interaction makes my blood pressure rise in a way I work hard to avoid. They immediately fall into reminiscing about things that clearly happened while they were seniors in high school and I was away fighting for our country.
What the fuck? How did they even become close? When I was still here, Deacon didn’t give girls like Kinzie the time of day. He only had eyes for a sure thing.
Was Kinzie a sure thing? Did the two of them hook up after I left?
I clear my throat, not wanting to think of the two of them that way. Not in any way.
They stop mid-conversation and look at me.
“Oh. Hey, Ethan. I didn’t even realize that was you. Are you two here together?” There’s a hint of disdain in his voice.
“Yes,” I say, just as Kinzie says “No.”
“It’s a long story,” she mutters.
A look of disappointment crosses his face. “It’s great to see you, Kinz. Tonight is on the house. You two can take lane three. The balls are over there.” He points to the back wall. “If you need anything, I’ll be here all night.”
“Thanks, Deac.” Kinzie’s lip curls upward.
“And don’t you dare leave without saying goodbye.” He winks at her.
We absolutely will be leaving without saying goodbye if I have anything to say about it.
“When did you and Deacon become such good friends?” I ask in a tone a little too harsh as we sit on the wobbly bench and trade our regular footwear for the blue and red bowling shoes that are no doubt as old as the bowling alley itself.
She eyes me with caution. “Deacon? We’ve been friends since…”
My heart drops at the way she hesitates. “It’s not like you and Deacon had a lot in common. He was kind of a—”
“Do not finish that sentence.” Her voice is sharp and full of warning. “Deacon is a really nice guy.”
My chest burns with anger. Jealousy. Annoyance.
Kinzie stands and pushes the legs of her jeans down. Then she bends to pick up an orange ball that weighs less than most babies do when they’re born.
“Are we placing bets like we used to?” She attempts a halfhearted smile.
With a long breath out, I tamp down the bitterness eating at me. So what if Deacon is a nice guy? If that’s how Kinzie wants to describe him, then fine.
“Sure.” I stand tall. “What do you have in mind?”
She taps her chin, her eyes dancing with mischief. “If I win, you help me with my next engagement cancellation.”
I blink hard and shake my head. “Nope. No way. I am not taking part in any of that.”
“Does that mean you’re going to lose?” Her words slide out slowly, as if taunting me to take her bait. Her shoulders bounce, and she wiggles her hips.
I release a heavy breath. “You, my dear, are not going to win.” But even as I say this, I don’t know how much I believe it myself. It’s been a long time since I’ve bowled.
Her eyes sparkle. “Then what are you afraid of?”
Tipping my head back, I groan. “What do I get when I win?”
“ If you win.” She smirks.
Just like that, a sliver of the old Kinzie peeks through. The fun-loving, coy, confident girl I fell in love with when I was just a kid.
“When I win,” I proclaim.
She scrunches her nose, her forehead crinkling. “Okay, we’ll go with that for now.”
Shifting the ball from one hand to the other, she slips her fingers into the holes.
“What is it you want? You know, when you win and all.” She rolls her eyes and harrumphs.
With a hum, I study her, pondering the possibilities. We used to have so much fun with our bets. Anything from harmless flirty kisses to picking out each other’s outfits. Sometimes we’d get silly, adventurous, or downright seductive, like the time we tied—with a terrible score of 101—and ended up skinny dipping the night before prom.
“Tell me about your mom,” I say, just above a whisper. This might be a terrible request, but the alternative lines up with memories I have no business touching.
Her shoulders drop the way I expect, and she bites the inside of her cheek. For a moment, she’s silent, studying the floor between us. Eventually, she looks up and squares her shoulders. “Deal.”