I rest my hand on his shoulder, peering down at the table. Yup. Someone done fucked shit right up. I snatch the little white card reading Grace Stone from the plate, but before I can tear it into tiny pieces, AJ grits out, “Give it to me.”
“No. This ain’t right.”
“I don’t care,” he says, his voice measured. “Hand it over. Right now.”
It’s his “I’m five minutes older and I’ll never let you forget it” tone. I pass him the fancy card, and he stares at it before tracing each letter with his index finger.
“I’m gonna find out who’s responsible for this and?—”
“Forget it. We’re here. Sit down.”
I’d lay into him for his attitude, but who the fuck decides it’s appropriate to set a place for a woman who’s been missing for more than two years?
“Jasper?” Commander Harris claps me on the shoulder. “What are you doing here?”
I have to twist in my seat to peer up at the man. I lost almost forty percent of the vision in my right eye in the explosion. I’m about to tell him off for Grace’s place card when AJ clears his throat. “He’s my plus one.”
The commander doesn’t react to my brother’s icy tone. He’s probably used to it by now.
“So what’s keepin’ you busy these days?” Harris asks as he pulls out a chair for his wife, Celeste.
Collecting rent checks from broke college students.
Destroying my liver.
Counting the cracks on the ceiling above my bed.
I’m spared the embarrassment of answering when our host for the evening returns to the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, please give it up for the Austin Chamber Ensemble. They’ll be providin’ the musical accompaniment tonight. Dinner is about to be served!”
Chapter Three
Emi
Five-hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner, my ass. I can’t stomach another bite of the rubberized chicken, lumpy mashed potatoes, and overcooked green beans. If I’d stayed home, I’d be in a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt with my laptop and a mess of ribs from Emmitt’s BBQ instead of here, still hungry, and in a dress that leaves very little to the imagination.
Next to me, Christy carries on a truly mind-numbing conversation with Senator Kelman’s swimsuit-model girlfriend about Austin’s chances of hosting the Miss Fifty States pageant next year.
My gaze keeps drifting to a table steps from the stage. And two men I know I’ve met, but for the life of me, can’t place. They’re related. Brothers, if I had to guess. They have the same build, the same crooked smile, the same nose. One of them is in full Ranger gear—down to the distinctive double-belt and his sidearm. The other is in a pair of Wranglers and looks downright miserable nursing a glass of amber liquid. Where do I know him from?
A vague memory rattles around in my head. “AJ. Shut up.”
AJ? I dig into my bag for the event program and flip to the schedule for the evening.
Dinner - 6:30 p.m.
Speeches - 7:30 p.m.
Presentation of the Thomas Distinguished Service Award to Captain AJ Stone - 8:00 p.m.
Dancing - 8:30 p.m. - Midnight
AJ Stone. The name doesn’t mean anything to me, but I pull out my phone and type in AJ’s name. In seconds, I find a handful of articles about the kidnapping of Grace Stone—AJ’s wife.
Grace Stone disappeared while out for a run near Lady Bird Lake. Her mobile phone and water bottle were found in a ditch, but there were no signs of a struggle. A reward of $50,000 has been offered by Grace’s husband, a captain with the Department of Public Safety. Anyone with knowledge of her whereabouts should contact the Tip Line at 888-555-1212.
The woman disappeared a few weeks before my grandmother entered hospice care. Normally, I would have covered a story like this, but I was barely functional at that point.
A second article on Grace’s disappearance includes a photo of both men at the table across from me.
