The street clattered with the scuffle of bodies, cuffs snapping shut with a metallic bite. Rick’s growl carried low, ragged, as his knee dug into Griffin’s back. “Stay down, bastard. You’re not going anywhere.”
Ash strode over, breath fogging in the air. He caught the ripple of reaction along the sidewalk: a pair of women hurrying past, eyes dropping to the ground as though the scene had nothing to do with them; a man lingering at the corner, watching, then turning away, collar up against the cold. Calgrave reflex—see nothing, hear nothing, move along before the night swallows you too.
Something winked at the gutter’s edge, a scrap of silver lying in the runoff beside Griffin’s head. Ash crouched, snatched it up before it could vanish in the muck. Cold weight settled in his palm. Straightening, he held it up.
A lighter. Just a goddamn lighter, nickel-bright, harmless. The little wheel still smelled of fuel.
“Rick,” he called, flicking the lid open, the flame trembling gold in the air before he snapped it shut again.
Rick’s jaw clenched as he saw it, gun still trained on Griffin even with the cuffs secure. His breath steamed.
Griffin twisted his head, cheek pressed to the street, words spilling out ragged and fast. “Jesus Christ, what do you want from me? I’m just a bartender!” His gaze found Ash, desperate and betrayed. “Ash? What the hell, man? You with him?”
Rick’s voice was a rasp of steel. “Doesn’t change the fact you knew two of our stiffs. You’re coming in.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” Griffin thrashed against the cuffs, breath coming hard. “You’ve got the wrong guy! Ash, tell him! I didn’t do shit!” He fought against Rick’s grip, stumbling when Rick hauled him upright in one smooth yank. “You’ve got the wrong guy! I swear to God!”
“Save it,” Rick barked, dragging him toward the car.
Ash trailed behind, the lighter clutched in his fist. He watched Griffin’s face in the spill of the streetlight—the wide-eyed look that swung between fear and bluster, not quite sure which would serve him better. It wasn’t the face of a killer, he thought, but of someone used to bluffing, to surviving on charm and quick talk. He recognized that rhythm too well, the way a mask could harden over panic, not to hide guilt but to keep the world from eating you alive.
Rick shoved Griffin into the backseat. He collapsed against the leather with a grunt, cuffs rattling when he shifted, muttering curses under his breath. Rick slid behind the wheel. Ash climbed back into the passenger seat, the ghost of the kiss stolen away still hanging like heat in the air.
Rick exhaled through his nose, eyes fixed ahead. “You don’t need to sit through another round at the station. I’ll drop you home. Get some sleep.”
Ash stretched out his legs, letting a crooked grin play at his lips. “Nice try, Wolf-Man. You’re not ditching me that easy. Besides, you might still need me.”
Rick gave a rough snort, the corner of his mouth betraying the faintest quirk. “Kid, I was cuffing scumbags when you were still learning your ABCs. I can manage this one without a babysitter.”
“With your people skills?” Ash countered. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”
Rick cut him a look, sharp as a blade. “What’s wrong with my people skills?”
“Nothing,” Ash drawled, tilting his head against the seat, letting the smirk linger. “If your role model’s a wrecking ball.”
Rick stared a moment too long before turning back to the wheel. “Smartass,” he muttered, starting the engine.
The car pulled out, tires hissing over wet asphalt as the city drew them back into its arms. Calgrave slid by in fragments of neon and rain-streaked glass, the buildings mirrored in gutters and puddles, fractured and trembling. Ash slouched into the seat, pulse still buzzing from the chaos, watching the night smear by in kaleidoscopic reflections. The smile tugged at his lips, faint and private. The man beside him may have been a wrecking ball—but one already crashing deeper into him than he’d ever meant to let anyone go.
Chapter Forty-Two
(4:12 a.m.)
“Let’s go over this one more time,” Rick said, dropping into the chair opposite Griffin, his shoulders cutting a shadow across the steel table. The weight of the interrogation room pressed in around them: bare walls, no clock, one low bulb casting just enough light to keep a man uncomfortable while the corners rotted in shadow. It was designed that way. A coffin of a space where the walls closed in until a suspect would trade anything just to get out. He kept his tone flat, worn smooth from years of practice. The repetition always grated. That was the point. “What were you doing at the Green Fairy on September twenty-eight?”
“Christ, again?” Griffin groaned, sagging into the chair. Rick watched him twitch, fingers fussing at his dog tags like he could still salvage some swagger. The bleached hair seemed almost white under the harsh bulb now, all that punk-rock charm stripped away. He looked less like the player Rick had watched outside Inferno and more like a rat caught in the light. “I told you, I was there with a friend. Beth Walker. She dragged me out because she thought her ex was cheating on her. Wanted eyes on him. Proof.”
Rick was aware of Ash behind him, hanging in the corner, cigarette ember a red eye glowing at the periphery of his vision. Griffin’s gaze kept darting toward him, nervous.Good. Let him sweat.
Rick slid a photo across the table. Elliot Price’s smile stared up at them—young, bright, a kid who’d thought he had his wholelife ahead of him. Rick had seen that look too many times on dead faces. “And you’re telling me you didn’t know him.”
Griffin leaned in, a crease cutting through the bravado. “Never saw him before that night. He was the one Beth’s ex was with. We didn’t stick around to watch—it was enough for her to see he wasn’t with another woman. But the two of them seemed… close.”
Rick’s jaw worked as he studied him. “You’re saying your friend’s ex was having an affair with Elliot Price?”
“How the hell should I know?” Griffin’s palms opened in mock surrender. “Could’ve been an affair. Could’ve been just old pals grabbing a drink. Maybe Beth knows more. She’s still obsessed with the bastard.”
Rick let the silence stretch, the bulb’s glare scratching at his nerves the way it was meant to. He tapped one finger against the table, keeping the rhythm steady, letting Griffin hear the seconds tick by. “You willing to give us her number and address?”
