37. Ford
FORD
It takes another two hours and an escort so we can grab a change of clothes before we’re finally left alone.
Thankfully, our family held down the fort while we dropped off June and Violet before returning to the scene.
Good news is the fire didn’t spread the way it was supposed to.
Cobie noticed long before it could really catch and do some major damage, thank fuck.
Even so, the place is under active investigation.
So where do we wind up? Why, Uncle Judge’s of course. The irony isn’t lost on me.
I scrub my hand over my face as Judge sits behind his desk, leaving the rest of us scattered throughout his office.
There’s plenty of seating. A couch. A window seat. A wingback chair. Hell, if I didn’t know the owner better, I’d say it’s almost…cozy. Now, if we could get the party started, that would be great. The carpet beneath my feet flattens to a pancake as I pace the massive office back and forth.
“What’s taking him so long?” I demand. “Hawke said he was on his way over an hour ago.”
Jagger sighs. “Violet said Lexie’s shift didn’t end until about thirty minutes ago.”
The front door opens, and Hawke appears. Grabbing the chin bar of his helmet, he comes into the room, sets it down on the desk, and shrugs off his jacket. “What’d I miss?”
Everything.
“We were waiting for you,” Jagger announces.
“Thanks.” He tosses his jacket on the back of the wingback chair and sits down. “All right, what do we know?”
Glancing at Judge sitting behind his desk, I wait for him to fill in Hawke.
No use playing telephone by regurgitating what little he told me at the house when he’s here to tell it firsthand.
It doesn’t hurt if I catch him slipping up and proving he’s not as on our side as he’d like us to believe, either.
Not that he would. I don’t think. Honestly, the jury’s still out, but only just.
Judge holds my gaze, waiting for me to answer Hawke instead of diving right in the way I expect.
The way any normal person would? Or maybe not.
Maybe he’s trying to be respectful. He knows this is one of the few, if not only, times we’ve included him on a brotherly meeting.
Maybe he’s trying not to step on any toes.
Or maybe he’s full of shit. Again, the jury’s out still. Regardless, it’s an interesting choice.
I wave my hand. “Floor’s all yours, Unc.”
With a sigh, he rests his elbows on his desk and dives right in. “All right, then. The fire department is opening an investigation as to what started the fire.”
“Yeah, and June’s ex is heading it up,” I clarify.
What a dick.
Jagger’s nod is slow as he urges Judge to continue. “They’re going to look at each of your alibis—”
“Alibis?” Hawke repeats. “Wait, do they suspect arson?”
Judge stares back at him. “Let’s just say it’s not off the table.”
“Why would we want to light our house on fire?” Hawke pushes.
“Why would anyone want to light their house on fire?” I correct him, broadening the scope in hopes of proving to the world that this is ridiculous.
“Insurance money,” Roman interjects. “People in The Drift do shit like that all the time. Life insurance. Home insurance. Doesn’t matter.
When you’ve paid into a pot long enough without getting anything in return, and you’re desperate for cash, it’s only a matter of time before the idea pops into your head.
With every shitty day, it starts to look sweeter and sweeter. ”
“Yeah, but our days aren’t shitty,” Jagger points out.
“Not that people know of, anyway,” I add dryly.
Hawke scrubs his hand through his hair, suggesting, “What if they wanted us home? It was late. They could’ve expected us to be winding down.”
“Or they knew we were out,” I offer.
“We weren’t supposed to be,” Jagger reminds me. “If Hawke hadn’t sent the text…”
My pulse ratchets. “Wait.”
Judge frowns. “What am I missing?”
“We were at The Body Shop because June and Vi were there,” I explain.
“And why were they there?” Judge prods.
Jagger stands from his perch on the arm of the couch, pulls out his phone, and dials a number.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who he’s calling.
While I was talking with June outside her apartment, Jagger checked the place and made sure everything was locked up.
It doesn’t hurt that he installed an insane security system a couple of weeks ago.
It was his first order of business after Violet’s dad showed up at her door drunk off his ass.
I’m grateful for it, too. Not that I thought she’d be in any danger before.
But now? Now, I’m not so sure. The possibility fucks with my head.
“Hey, Little Thief,” he rumbles into his cell.
Silence. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re okay. Listen.
” He scrapes his hand from the top of his head down to his chin before dropping his head back toward the ceiling.
“Why did you decide to go to The Body Shop tonight?” He pauses.
“I know you already told me. I just want to confirm.” Silence.
His chest heaves on a sigh. “That’s what I thought.
Thanks, Vi.” Silence. “Yeah. Yeah, you, too. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Stay safe.”
The call disconnects, and his hand falls to his side. “Lex invited them to hang out during her shift.”
Well, shit. Not exactly a nail in the coffin, but it doesn’t paint Lexie in the best light, either. Would she play her friends like this? Manipulate them, and more importantly, us, in the process if her brother asked?
Coming to the same twisted conclusion, Hawke growls, “She wouldn’t.”
“You don’t know that,” Jagger starts.
“Yes, I fucking do.” Hawke pushes to his feet. “I’ve been watching that girl’s every move for months. She would never use her friends as bait to get us away from the house.”
“She might if she was in danger,” Roman suggests.
Hawke’s head shakes back and forth. “No. Bullshit. Not even then. I know it—”
“Right now, we don’t know anything,” Jagger protests. “She could’ve been manipulated or—”
“She wouldn’t do that,” Hawke growls.
“What about the cameras?” I interject. June’s place isn’t the only one with a decked-out security system. How hadn’t we thought of it before? “We don’t need to speculate if we can find proof it was Morgan.”
Something sparks in Hawke’s gaze, and he collapses back in the chair, stealing his laptop from Roman’s bag. He must’ve asked Rome to grab it for him while we were at the house.
Smart.
As Hawke opens the laptop, tension builds in the room. None of us moves, afraid we’ll break our brother’s concentration. But if we find proof. If we find actual footage of the trespasser lighting a fire, it’ll be…it’ll be everything.
I sit on the edge of the couch, my knee bouncing in rhythm with the steady tap-tap of the keyboard.
We have him. Fuck, we have him. Sonofabitch messed with the wrong family if he honestly thought he could get away with torching our home.
Hawke’s fingers click against the keyboard.
The sound is like an anthem, and I take a deep breath, grateful we’re finally going to win one for once.
After all the shit we’ve been dealing with, we’ve earned it.
The tapping ceases, and Hawke leans closer to the screen. A divot forms between his brows. “What the…?”
“Who is it?” I ask.
He shakes his head, his fingers tapping double-time.
“Hawke, can you see his face?” Jagger pushes.
“I can’t see anything,” he mumbles.
I push to my feet. “What?”
“There’s nothing.” He sits back, stunned. “Nothing’s there.”
“What’s not there?” Roman demands.
Tearing his attention from the screen, Hawke looks up and closes the laptop. “From 11:13 pm to 12:37 am this morning, the cameras were off. There’s no footage.”
My pacing stalls. “You’re telling me you don’t know who started the fire?”
“I’m telling you that whatever evidence we could’ve had was mitigated when our cameras went down,” Hawke snaps.
Roman stands and reaches for the laptop as if he’ll have the power to find the missing files. It’s possible. Roman’s kind of a jack of all trades. But if the expert can’t find it, how will Rome? As he opens the laptop, Roman asks, “So, what does this mean?”
“It means we’re fucked,” I announce from the opposite side of the room.
Jagger cuts me a scathing look. “Not now, Ford.”
“If not now, when?” I push. “I know you guys love a Positive Pete, but the cameras mysteriously went down at the same time our house went up in flames. Tell me that’s a coincidence.”
“No one’s saying it’s a coincidence,” Uncle Judge interrupts from behind the desk.
Shit, he’s been so damn quiet I almost forgot he was here.
“At least Cobes was home to call it in,” Jagger says.
A haze hits Roman’s eyes. He goes still. “Not sure I’d put it that way.”
“It could’ve been worse,” Hawke offers.
“Not sure how,” I mutter. “Almost half of the west side is burnt to a crisp.”
“From the photos, it looks like it’s a quarter at best,” Hawke argues.
I give him the bird in response.
“We’ll repair it,” Jagger announces. “It’ll be fine.”
Fine? Someone tried to burn down our house, and all Jagger can say is it’ll be fine? I’ve always trusted my brothers to know what to do in any situation, but this feels like a new low for all of us.
Sitting my ass back on the couch, I rest my elbows on my knees and take a deep breath. “Sure, it will.”
“The question is, what are the odds of our security system failing for no reason ten minutes before the fire started?” Hawke says. “And the fact it came back on afterward?” His teeth grind.
Statistically speaking, I’d say one percent, if that, but I’m pretty sure it’s a rhetorical question. Besides, it doesn’t take a math genius to piece together the most plausible culprit.
“You think it was Morgan?” Roman asks Hawke, circling back to our earlier assumption.
Instead of answering, Hawke looks at Jagger.