17
Jamie
Thenighthumstheway it always does at The Crest. Dad is leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled, counting the night’s take like it’s holy scripture.
We’re not supposed to call it what it really is—a family front, a hub, a money-laundering machine—but that’s exactly what it is. The Crest isn’t just a bar, it’s an altar to the Crest family name, to everything my father built with blood, grit, and people who don’t ask too many questions.
I’m in the back booth, hands sticky from whiskey and the faint residue of gun oil. I am so exhausted from working all day and there’s nothing I want more than to head to bed.
Our suppliers had just dropped off a crate under the table—unmarked, unregistered. Dad’s been selling “collectibles” to some buyers down south, the kind that don’t come with serial numbers.
We were doing the count when Miles called from an unknown number.
The one word––a single goddamn word––that slices through every wall I’ve built since we were fifteen.
Avalon.
Fuck!
Dad looks up from the ledger, watching me like he can smell trouble.
“Who was that?” he asks, but I’m already standing.
My pulse kicks. “I gotta go,” I tell him.
He just grunts. “Don’t bring cops to my doorstep.”
I salute him, walking out into the night. It’s been years since me or Miles have used the wordAvalon. We were sixteen, standing behind the bleachers with busted lips after taking down a couple of seniors who thought it was funny to trash-talk Miles. I was bleeding from my eyebrow, he had a split knuckle, and we’d laughed like lunatics when the principal called both our dads to come drag us home.
That night, hiding in my room, we made a deal that if either of us ever got into something we couldn’t talk our way out of, we’d sayAvalon.It wasn’t random. It was the name of a boat my momused to tell us about when we were kids, some mythical place where the bad parts of life couldn’t reach you. We swore it meantcome get me, no questions asked.
And now he’s said it.
By the time I hit the station, the rain’s started. It’s coming down hard, relentless, drumming against the windshield.
I call Maxwell on the way. Detective Maxwell’s been on the force longer than I’ve been alive. He’s also on the Crest payroll. Not officially, of course. But he’s been known to “misplace” evidence and “forget” booking paperwork when the right envelope hits his desk.
“Maxwell,” he answers, voice gravel and bourbon.
“It’s Jamie. I need a favor.”
There’s a pause, then a low chuckle. “You always do.”
“One of ours got picked up—Miles Thatcher.”
I can hear him shuffle papers, the faint flick of a lighter. “Charges?”
“Grand theft auto, resisting arrest. Probably more if they dig.”
He exhales a long line of smoke. “Christ, Jamie, you pick up strays like a shelter.”
“Can you make it disappear, X?”
“Disappear? No. But I can make itquiet.”
“Do that. I’m on my way.”
I hate the police station. The kind of hate that goes bone-deep—old memories of sitting in these same chairs, Dad behind the glass, me pretending not to cry.
