11. Mace Kimble
MACE KIMBLE
By the time I walked out of Vice’s office, my chest felt tight enough to make breathing uncomfortable.
I’d spent the last two weeks preparing myself for the possibility that he would get into Sam’s phone, but knowing it could happen and sitting across from him while he read those messages were two different things.
After almost two years of hiding what Sam and I had from everybody around us, the secret was out.
A part of me felt exposed in a way I couldn’t explain, but another part was relieved.
I was tired of standing beside Sam’s grave pretending I’d only lost a friend.
Tired of hearing people call him my brother while I swallowed the truth because that was what he’d wanted.
Sam had been more than that to me, and keeping it buried after he died had started feeling like I was erasing the best part of my life.
Still, I wished Vice had found out another way.
I made it through the restaurant without stopping, ignoring the employees who spoke as I passed.
The second I stepped outside, I pulled in a deep breath and headed toward my truck.
My hands shook a little when I reached for the door, and that pissed me off more than anything.
I wasn’t the kind of man who lost control of himself.
I handled whatever needed to be handled and dealt with the rest later.
The problem right now was, later had finally caught up with me.
I climbed behind the wheel but didn’t start the engine. For a few minutes, I just sat here staring through the windshield while the conversation with Vice replayed in my head.
You could’ve told me.
He was right…
I could’ve…
Vice wasn’t the type to care about who I loved, and deep down, I’d always known that.
Sam knew it too, even when fear convinced him otherwise.
The people around us might’ve talked. Some probably would’ve looked at us differently, but Vice wouldn’t have.
He would’ve asked a few disrespectful questions, laughed at how long we managed to hide it, then kept moving like nothing had changed.
Still, Sam wasn’t ready for him to know.
I’d respected that because I loved him more than I cared about being publicly claimed. At least, that was what I told myself whenever hiding started getting under my skin.
My phone rang, and for one stupid second, I reached for it expecting to see Sam’s name.
The screen showed an unknown number instead.
I let it ring until it stopped.
That shit kept happening. Every time my phone went off, some part of me still expected him. Sam calling to ask where I was. Sam complaining that I hadn’t answered fast enough. Sam sending some dumb ass picture with no explanation because he knew I’d call him to ask what the hell it meant.
The silence after each call reminded me all over again that he was gone.
I finally started my truck and pulled away from the restaurant. Home was less than twenty minutes away, but I took the long route because I wasn’t ready to walk through the door. That house had been mine long before Sam started spending nights there, yet somehow every room belonged to him now.
His shoes were near the back door because he always kicked them off wherever he felt like it. There was a toothbrush in the bathroom beside mine, even though he swore keeping one there didn’t mean he had moved in.
Everywhere I looked, there was proof that Sam had existed in a place nobody knew he belonged.
By the time I pulled into the driveway, the sun was going down. I sat in the truck for what seemed like forever then forced myself inside.
The house smelled the same. Nothing had moved. Sam’s hoodie still hung over the chair in my room exactly where he’d left it, and the sight of it made me stop in the bedroom doorway.
“Man, fuck you,” I muttered, even though he wasn’t here to hear it.
The words didn’t come from anger alone. They came from missing him so much that sometimes it felt easier to be pissed than to admit how bad losing him hurt.
I walked into the room and picked up the hoodie, holding it long enough to catch the faint trace of his cologne. It was almost gone now, but I recognized it immediately. Sam used too much of that expensive shit and acted offended whenever I complained.
The memory came without warning.
“You spray that whole bottle on you?” I’d asked one night as he walked out of my bathroom.
Sam looked down at himself before lifting one arm and smelling his shirt. “You always got something to say.”
“I’m just asking a question.”
“No, you being cheap because you don’t want to buy me another bottle. This cologne smell too good just to spray it once.”
“It ain’t got shit to do with the price. You choking me.”
He grinned as he walked toward the bed. “You didn’t have a problem breathing last night.”
I looked at him. “That was different.”
“How?”
“You wasn’t wearing no clothes.”
Sam laughed so hard he nearly dropped the glass in his hand. “See? This why I don’t take your serious ass serious.”
He climbed onto the bed beside me and rested his head against my shoulder like he hadn’t just spent the last five minutes getting on my nerves. That was how Sam moved through my life. He irritated the hell out of me, then got close enough to make it impossible to stay mad.
I lowered the hoodie and sat on the edge of the bed.
That memory had happened less than a month ago.
Now I would’ve given anything to smell too much of his cologne again.
I pressed my palms together and looked toward the nightstand. A picture of us was hidden in the bottom drawer, along with a few other things I’d kept out of sight whenever somebody came over. I pulled it open and took out the photo.
Sam had convinced me to take it during a weekend trip to Miami.
We were standing on a hotel balcony with the ocean behind us, his arm around my waist and a smile stretched across his face.
I wasn’t smiling, but Sam always said he knew I was happy because I’d let him take the picture in the first place.
Nobody else had ever seen it.
Vice probably had now and so much more if he’d gone through Sam’s photos, and I prayed he hadn’t done that.
Even so, the thought should’ve embarrassed me, but it didn’t. All I could think about was Sam wanting proof of something we spent most of our time hiding.
He had always wanted more than I knew how to give him.
Not more love. I loved that man harder than I’d ever loved anybody. Sam knew that when it was just the two of us.
He wanted more freedom.
He wanted to sit beside me at family dinners without checking how close we were. He wanted to answer honestly when somebody asked why we kept showing up at the same places. Some days, he talked about telling his mother. Other days, the thought scared him enough to make him change the subject.
I never pushed, either.
At the time, I thought I was protecting him by letting him move at his own pace. Now I wondered whether my silence had made it easier for him to believe hiding was the only option.
I set the picture on the nightstand instead of putting it back in the drawer.
There was nobody left to hide it from.
My phone vibrated again, this time with a message from the man trying to trace the prepaid number.
Him: No subscriber information. Phone was bought with cash. Last active near Grady, then shut off. Still checking nearby cameras.
I read it twice before typing a response.
Me: Find out where it was bought. I don’t care how long it takes.
The answer came back almost immediately.
Him: Working on it.
I set the phone down and leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. Sam had been warned to leave something alone, and instead of backing off, he’d gone deeper. That was him. Once he believed something mattered, getting him to let it go was damn near impossible.
I’d tried…
The last real argument we had started over the same shit that got him killed.
Sam had come into the house late, a mug on his face and his mind somewhere else. I’d been sitting in the living room waiting on him because he’d ignored three calls and a text asking where he was.
“You know how to answer your phone,” I said when he walked in.
He shut the door and tossed his keys on the table. “I was busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Handling something.”
“That ain’t an answer.”
“It’s the one I’m giving.”
I watched him cross the room, already knowing the conversation was about to go left. “This got something to do with Vice?”
Sam stopped walking.
That answered me before he opened his mouth.
“Who told you that?”
“Nobody had to. You’ve been asking questions about his mama for weeks, disappearing for hours and acting like you ain’t doing shit.”
He looked away. “I’m close.”
“To what?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Then you ain’t close.”
He turned back toward me with irritation all over his face. “You don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t, because you won’t tell me shit.”
“I can’t tell Vice until I know everything.”
“I ain’t Vice.”
Sam’s expression shifted, but he still didn’t explain. “I’m trying to protect you.”
I laughed without humor. “From what?”
“From being involved.”
“I’m already involved. You my man, and you moving around acting like somebody on your ass.”
“Nobody’s on my ass.”
“You sure?” He didn’t answer fast enough. I stood from the couch, going straight into protector mode. “Who threatened you?”
“Nobody threatened me.”
“Sam.”
“I got a message. That’s it.”
“What message?”
“Somebody told me to leave it alone.”
“And your dumb ass kept going.”
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me dumb.”
“You acting dumb. You don’t know who sent it, what they capable of or how deep this shit goes, but you still walking around asking questions.”
“It’s about Vice...”
“I don’t give a fuck who it’s about if it gets you killed.”
The room got quiet.
Sam stared at me like I’d said too much, but fear of losing him had already taken over whatever patience I had left.
“Let Vice handle his own shit or tell me so I can handle it. That’s what I’m paid to do,” I told him. “Tell him what you know and let him decide what to do with it.”
“I don’t know enough yet.”
“You know enough to get threatened.”
“That’s exactly why I can’t go to him with half the story. You know how Vice gets. He’ll tear everything apart before I can prove anything.”
“That ain’t your problem.”
“He’s my family.”
“So are you.” Sam’s face softened, but I was too angry to care. “Leave it alone,” I said. “For me.”
He looked down for a second before slowly shaking his head. “I can’t.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because if I’m right, he deserves to know.”
I’d heard those exact words again in Milan’s statement—Vice deserves to know.
At the time, I’d been too worried about Sam to understand what he was trying to tell me. Now those words were all I had.
Our argument didn’t end well.
That night, Sam grabbed his keys and left after telling me he needed space. I let him go because I was pissed off and tired of trying to force answers out of him.
He came back the next night, but we didn’t apologize right away.
Sam never liked being the first one to admit he was wrong, and I was too stubborn to make it easy for him.
He cooked dinner like nothing had happened, complained when I didn’t compliment it fast enough and eventually sat beside me on the couch.
“You still mad?” he asked.
I looked at him. “I don’t know… You leaving whatever you got going on alone?”
“No...”
“Then yeah, I’m still mad.”
He sat there quietly before resting his head on my shoulder. “You still love me, though. Right?”
“That ain’t got shit to do with it.”
“That’s not the answer I was hoping for.”
“Yeah, Sam…” I finally answered. “I still love you.”
“Then be mad tomorrow.”
I should’ve pushed harder that night. I should’ve taken his phone, followed him or gone straight to Vice and told him everything I knew. Instead, I let Sam pull me into bed and convinced myself we had time to deal with it later.
A few days later, he was dead.
I stood from the bed before the guilt dragged me somewhere I couldn’t afford to stay. Regret wasn’t going to bring him back. Sitting in the room replaying every mistake wouldn’t put a name behind the gun.
Sam needed me to finish what he’d started, even if I still didn’t understand what the hell he had found.
I walked into my office and turned on the computer.
I’d already started building a timeline from the pieces Vice and I knew.
Sam had visited his mother days before the shooting and asked questions about Vice’s mother.
He’d searched old records, contacted people who knew her and received a warning from a prepaid phone.
The night he died, he went to Grady to meet someone…
Maybe he wasn’t meeting the killer there. He could’ve been meeting somebody who worked inside. Someone with access to old medical records. Someone who knew what happened to Vice’s mother before the drugs took over her life.
I pulled up the list of hospital employees from security and started going through the names again.
Most meant nothing to me, but one stood out because Sam had searched it on his phone three days before he died.
He had left his phone sitting on the bed while he went to the bathroom with it pulled up.
Dr. Wallace Greene…
The man was retired now, but records showed he’d worked at Grady more than thirty years ago. Long enough to have been there when Vice’s mother was still alive.
I copied the name into a separate search and found an old address in Decatur.
For the first time all night, something inside me settled.
It wasn’t an answer, but it was a direction.
I reached for my gun and tucked it into my waistband before grabbing my keys. Sam had gone looking for the truth alone, and I’d already lost him because I let that happen.
Before leaving, I walked back into the bedroom and looked at the picture sitting on the nightstand. His smile hit me the same way it always did, except this time, I didn’t put the photo away.
“I’m gonna find the mothafuckas who did this to you,” I promised, my voice filled with much venom. “Then I’m gonna make sure they feel every second of what you left me with.”
I turned off the light and headed for the door.
Whoever killed Sam might’ve believed burying him would bury the truth too, but they didn’t know me well enough. I worked for Vice Blackwell for a reason. If there was a trail to follow, I’d find it. If there was a lie to uncover, I’d expose it. That’s what I did, and I was damn good at it.