Chapter 7 - Kate
He raises his paper coffee cup from his usual spot in the far corner of Brew Cover, the back alley café where we always meet.
Dim lighting, hedges of potted bamboo, and seats at the rear provide cover from street view.
The tables are spaced far enough apart to facilitate an easy exit.
Paranoia serves us well in this business, and that’s why we work well together.
I have history with the police and not the good kind, so I take zero chances of them interfering in my investigation.
I grab a chai latte before moving deeper into the space.
My contact half lifts from his seat when I reach our table.
Light gray suit on as usual. Navy tie. Thinning silver hair.
Shoulders slouched more than the last time we met.
Sixty-two and counting down the months until retirement, but sharp as the day he started at the city’s medical examiner office.
Steel-rim glasses frame his eyes. “You look flushed, Mindy.” He mentions the fake name we agreed to use in public. “Everything okay?”
He reminds me of someone who made me believe in safety… until he didn’t.
I slide into the seat across from him. “Just caffeine-deprived and slightly paranoid. Standard Tuesday.”
Allan doesn’t waste time and slips a thick manilla envelope from beneath his coat and slides it over the table between us. His crisp blue shirt catches the light, and for a split second, my breath catches. I hate how that color still gets to me.
“Five bodies landed on my slab yesterday,” he says. “All Morrone family.”
I still. Warmth from the chai latte won’t replace the heat whisked from my body.
Shadow Lake’s mob. Getting intel on them is as futile as getting blood from a stone. Unless that stone owes you money and has a tendency to vanish under suspicious circumstances.
I open the envelope and flip through the reports, careful to shield them from a passing waitress. Names, injuries, timestamps, gruesome shots, and fingers with Morrone tattoos.
“Execution style?” I murmur.
Allan nods, removes his glasses and polishes them with his handkerchief. “Multiple gunshot wounds. I wanted to flag it for official inquiry.” He pauses to sip his coffee. “Blackthorn called and ordered my boss no reports, no trail. Release the bodies to the family immediately.”
The name hits me like a bullet wound. I use all my self-control to steel my expression, but my pulse punches harder.
Blackthorn always pulls strings, erasing crimes, including the one he committed against me. It’s his job as the heir of Order Mars to protect all seven branches of their syndicate.
I’ll never forget the day I met Allan. The only one willing to talk off-record about a missing persons case that smelled rotten from the start. Surprise, surprise, the cops never found the body. But I found a name. Blackthorn. It all connects to him.
All the chaos of the last few days catches up to me, and the shakes hit. I close the file and meet my source’s eyes. “Any sign this is connected to Sterling City?”
He slides his frames back on his face and blinks. “The police say it’s internal, but I don’t buy it. The bullets don’t match previous Morrone crimes.”
Shadows creep longer across the alley, and my gut twists.
“You okay?” Allan asks.
Thoughts twist into memories of the helmeted man. To the bug in my lamp. The matte black motorcycle that tailed me from a distance this morning. Same biker on my trail the night he stopped my panic attack from worsening. For a second, I let myself believe that he touched me like I wasn’t broken.
My jaw aches from clenching it. I push those thoughts down. I’m silly for letting myself believe I’m worth saving when I’m the girl who gets left behind, even by the one who swear they won’t.
I straighten, return the documents to their folder and tap it on the table. “Thank you, Allan. This helps. Stay safe, okay?”
He nods and leans back, lifting his coffee. “You’re not alone in this, you know. I wouldn’t be feeding you these reports if I didn’t think someone had to shine a light.”
I smile, thin but genuine. “Good thing I brought a flamethrower.”
Back in my car, I merge into traffic, crawling like a sedated snail. Horns blare. Indicators flash. Let’s not identify that funky smell coming from that open pit that the telecommunications technicians work on.
I need to release pent-up tension. Belt out a tune.
No, a power ballad. I press a button on my radio to activate a CD.
Celine Dion, The Color of My Love, and I rewind to the song I need.
The Power of Love, her cover, and arguably the better in my opinion.
Fight me on it. I crank the volume and get into it like I’m headlining a Vegas show, traffic be damned.
Right as the chorus hits, I spot him. Matte black motorcycle. Black riding gear. The biker, three cars back. Getting bolder and closer.
My chest tightens. My warble turns into a choke.
Is it my stalker? My shadow? My savior?
Something warm flickers in my belly, then immediately curdles into shame.
No. Snap out of it!
I change lanes to escape the car in front of me, weaving like a drunk dick. The biker mirrors me. Clean. Smooth. Obvious. He’s done this before.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
Sorry, Celine, you’re on your own for this one.
At the next right, I veer off the main drag, out of instinct, fear, or a desperate need to know his motive. It adds ten minutes to my trip. Worth it if it proves I’m not paranoid. He follows, and my heart slams against my ribs, and I rub at my sternum to scrub away the soaring panic.
Maybe he’s not my savior, but rather a monster sent to silence me. Adrenaline spikes in my blood and floods the panic. Blackthorn knows I’ve been sniffing around the morgue. He’s put a target on my back.
Guess what, asshole? You’re not going to silence me this time. The world is going to discover what skeletons hide in your closet.
The more he tries to unnerve me, the deeper I’ll dig. This demon has overstepped his welcome in haunting me.
To confirm or rule him out as the most obvious suspect, I’ve got to make a call. I tell my phone the contact to dial.
Mom answers after five rings. “Hey, sweetie, how are you?”
I get the pleasantries over with. “Fine. Work is keeping me busy.”
“How’s my grandson?” Of course, she means Josh.
“In love with Harper.” I twist the button on my shirt. “I take him for walks, play ball, save him from Mr. Rogers, and feed him. He’s still obsessed with her.”
Mom laughs. “That’s because she gives him the beef jerky.”
“Oh, thanks!” I smack my thigh. “Even you’re Team Harper. I give up.”
She chuckles, and I let it linger for a beat before I check the rearview. The biker’s gone. My breath stutters. Gone or hiding? The worst part is knowing where he is. Behind me, and I can’t see him. Waiting and watching. I’ll never know until it’s too late. I check every mirror twice. Nothing.
“Sorry I haven’t called in a while,” I try to get to the real reason I called, but she gets in first.
“That’s okay.” Her voice is too bright not to be telling. “Actually, I met someone.”
I blink. “Yeah, what’s he like?” I play with the stitching on my wrist, itching to dive in.
“Wonderful. Kind, a real gentleman. We’ve been seeing each other for a couple of months.” Sounds perfect on paper. Paper lies, and I don’t trust it.
I try to smile but don’t feel it. “I’d like to meet him sometime, Mom.” I lead into the new topic before she distracts me further. “Have you… had any trouble with my father recently?”
A short pause follows. “No, why? Did he call?”
I snort out a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
The only time I ever spoke to the man was when he phoned me after The Times fired me to tell me he arranged a “favor” job for me.
Cue the lecture on how I should be grateful to the man who denied fathering me, ruined my mom in court, and paid the bare minimum in child support when he’s a billionaire and can afford it.
Charles Huntington never wanted me or cared.
But he’s powerful, and when men like Blackthorn crawl out of the dark, my father is always nearby.
I draw breath. “I don’t want to worry you, Mom, but someone followed me home tonight, and it’s not the first time.”
“You’re worried it’s Blackthorn?” Her voice sharpens like knives. She’s been through this twice before.
The name never fails to punch the air from my lungs. “Yes.”
“Do you want me to call him?” Mom’s tone turns steely.
“No!” I snap too quickly, then soften the rest. “I don’t need his help or want to have to worship the man.”
“Do you want me to come over?” Mom’s voice gentles.
“No, it’s okay. It’s probably nothing.” My hand aches from gripping the steering wheel so hard. I pump my hand to get the blood flow back.
“Call me tomorrow with updates,” Mom says.
“Sure. Love you. Night.” I put on my best I’m fine tone to ease her mind and stop her from making the thirty-minute trip over to stay with me.
“Love you too, sweetie.”
I end the call and do my best impression of someone not on the edge of a confused spiral. The knot in my chest loosens. Mom didn’t say anything magical to completely relieve me, but just hearing her voice, knowing that she cares, and hasn’t been bothered by Blackthorn, is a boot off my throat.
I check my mirrors for the biker. Nowhere to be seen.
Next time I see him up close and personal, I’ll have questions.
And this time, I won’t be the girl who’s afraid.
I lean over to touch my handbag. I’ll be the girl packing pepper spray, something sharp, and have bite on my tongue when I ask questions.
Ten minutes later, I pull into my driveway and park my car. Getting out, I scan the parked cars along the road. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Unsettled, I climb my porch and find an parcel and mail left on my doorstep instead of my mailbox. That’s weird.