I consider this as I back him against the wall. “What about her mom?” I ask carefully.
“Shit, I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his thinning hair. “She keeps cornering me, asking questions about the night her mother died. I didn’t have anything to do with her death, I swear.”
The barrel of the gun slides through the gloss of sweat coating his head. “Are you sure about that?”
“Y-yes, man. Please. Let me go. I won’t say anything.”
“You know, I was there the night the man who raised me killed my father. Sounds like something you’d see on TV. But you want to know what I remember the most about that night?”
“Fuck, fuck, yeah, whatever you want.”
“I remember how my father was on his knees. It had been raining, and he was freezing. My mother was next to me,watching. And all my father could do was say please, please. Please don’t do this. Please don’t make them watch. Please.”
“You don’t have to do it, man. I’ll leave her alone.”
“I learned that night I’m more monster than man. That I’d have to grow up to be more like the man who raised me if I wanted any hope of killing him. Payin’ him back for what he did to my family.”
Devin Franklin moans. Perhaps he realizes there are some fates you can’t escape. Something I had to come to terms with myself.
“Tell me, did you have something to do with the person who took shots at her and the old man, Broussard?”
“I don’t know anything about that. Fuck. Please.”
If he were going to admit it, it’d be now. With my gun carving a dent into his forehead and my hand fisted in his suit jacket. If he’s lying, he’s doing a damn convincing job of it. And I know what it’s like to look a liar in the face.
I lower my gun and take a few steps back. Then I pause, aim it at his head, and say, “That’s too bad. You would have been more useful if you had more information.”
Then several things happen all at once: there are footsteps behind me. Shite! I give a half-turn automatically to look in the direction of the sound. My finger pulls the trigger, and the bullet misses Franklin by a hair. He screams and ducks, nearly falling to his ass among the garbage.
Turning, I scan the space to my right for the source of the sound, but find nothing. I do the same on my left and see a figure moving toward me. What little light there is in the alley glints off the silver of a knife arcing toward me. I manage to turn on instinct, and the hot fire slashes through my shoulder.
A grunt punches out of me at the searing pain, but experience tells me it’s not a mortal wound. The attack unbalances me enough that I crash into the brick wall of the building, and myhead glances off, sending sparks through my vision. My knees buckle as darkness encroaches.
Devin hisses at them to leave before I get up. And then the darkness, my old friend, swallows me whole.
“Hey!You. Get out of here before I call the garda.” There’s the rustle of footsteps. “I mean it! I don’t want any trouble.”
I jerk to my feet at the first sound of the voice. My head and shoulder scream in protest, but whatever happened, I don’t want to be here if the proprietor follows through on their threats. Stumbling, I find the end of an alleyway, wincing as the sun stabs into my brain.
By the grace of God, I find my rental and climb in. By the time I settle behind the wheel, the memory of what happened comes back to me in a sickening roil.
Devin Franklin.
The knife.
Fuck, no wonder my arm aches like a bitch.
I peel out of my jacket, grimacing as it screams in protest. The slash is only a couple of inches. I got fucking lucky. Then I find my phone and check messages.
9:33 a.m. Bren
Same
10:02 a.m. Bren
Same
10:36 a.m. Bren
