Fuck.
I hated going to the valley.
I was tired of driving and I was tired in general. Exhaustion weighed on my bones as I dragged myself back to the car. I keyed the address into my nav, stopping at a Jack in the Box on the way before hitting the 405. It was the middle of the afternoon on a Monday so traffic wasn’t as horrible as rush hour, but it still took almost an hour. I didn’t know why Sharp was sending me on a goose chase into the suburbs, but I knew I hated it.
I pulled up in front of a yellow house with a cluster of rose bushes out front. A chain link fence wrapped the front yard. The place looked positively Stepford. I parked along the curb and got out, giving the neighborhood a quick look as I walked up the driveway to the front door. I knocked against the painted blue door and listened to footsteps approach. Instinctively, I slipped my hand beneath my jacket, fingers resting against the butt of my 1911. The door opened, revealing Sharp, more casual than I’d ever seen him. He stepped to the side and held his arm out, gesturing for me to come in.
“Where am I?” I asked, looking around the living room of the house.
“My house,” Sharp answered, locking the door.
“You have white upholstered couches.”
“I’m never home,” he said, brushing past me. “Come on.”
I followed him down a hallway and into his office, which was furnished as shabby chic, as the rest of the house appeared.
“Sharp, does this place have barn doors on the closets?” I asked, settling into a plush, floral-patterned couch beneath a window on the back wall of his office. I looked out the window; a yard with thick green grass and a small pool filled the space, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the whole thing.
“It came furnished,” he explained.
“And you just never redecorated?”
“I’m not here enough.” He frowned.
“Alright.” I tried to not smile, giving him my attention. “What’s up?”
“Have you made any progress on finding out who has the hit on you?” he asked.
“Not as much as I would like,” I admitted. “I’ve been trying to focus on Sage. He thinks it came from his dad.”
“What do you think?”
“Not my first choice.”
“You think it’s Molinaro?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Which one?”
“What?” My eyebrows flew up.
“Which one?” he asked again. “Dad or kid?”
“Wait.” I straightened up and leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Do you think it’s the dad?”
Sharp shrugged, giving me a blank expression. “I was asking whatyouthought,” he said.
“I’ve been looking at the kid,” I told him. “Should I be looking at his dad? Does Sage have his sights on the wrong father figure?”
“I’m not saying either way,” Sharp offered. “I just think you’re too close to this and I’m worried you’re going to miss something because your vision is clouded.”
“My vision isn’t clouded,” I protested.
“It is.” He pulled open the drawer of his desk and pulled out a stack of pictures, holding them out to me. A familiar sense of dread settled over me and I pushed off the couch, crossing the room and taking the prints out of his hand.
The ones on top I recognized from before, Sage and me on my back deck drinking coffee. They were the pictures Sharp had shown me the day someone threw a brick through my front window. I flipped through the stack, clenching my jaw as I worked my way down. There were pictures from Rapture, of Sage in the parking lot by my car, of him going into the club. I knew what night they were from, and my heart stuttered, worrying I was about to be outed. A twitch built in the corner of my eye and I blinked, quickly swallowing the tension into my gut. There were pictures of Sage at the bar, going into the bathroom, sucking that guy off the night of the auction, but no pictures of him and me. Not in the club, not in the alley, not at the cabin. It was…too suspect that whoever was leaking the information was deliberately omitting just how closely he and I were involved.
