I snorted, some of the tension leaving my shoulders, but quickly sobered. “He was a fucking predator masquerading as a preppy frat bro.”
“So what’s the problem?” he asked. “These yours?”
“Shit, I wish,” I said. “Unfortunately, this lovely little care package was delivered to my office today.” I flipped the index card, which I’d held onto until now, toward him. “With this.”
Trey lifted it and read the two lines, eyes wide when he angled his head to look at me.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“That makes two of us,” I agreed with a humorless chuckle, dropping my head into my hands. “The only person in the world who knows what I did is you.”
“You haven’t told anyone else? Not even Sutton?”
“Fuck no. And even if Ihadtold her, she wouldnever.”
I wasn’t sure about a lot these days, but I was sure about that. Like Trey, I knew if Sutton was aware of my deepest, darkest secret, she’d take it to the grave.
A long, extended silence descended, both Trey and I lost in our own thoughts until he broke it.
“Is there anyone from back then thatcouldhave figured out what you did? Someone who was part of the investigation or close to the family that just refused to let it go?”
One name immediately came to mind.
“Detective Chadwick. Boyd told me he was the one who tipped him off that the warrant for his arrest had been issued.”
Trey got up and reset his kitchen, putting the remaining stir fry into a container, clearing the stove and loading the dishwasher, while I ran a quick Google search on Detective Richard “Rip” Chadwick.
The good news: an obituary didn’t come up so he seemed to still be alive.
The bad news: he retired over a decade ago.
Conveniently, not long after Ryan Boyd was confirmed dead.
Once his kitchen was set to rights, Trey and I retreated to his bat cave. Seated in front of the bank of monitors, Trey tapped away at the keys, drawing up a dialogue box before looking at me.
“Name?” I provided it, and he typed it in. “Alright, what do you want me to do?”
“I wanteverythingon this guy.”
Trey raised a brow at my tone. “Everything?”
“Everything,” I confirmed. “No stone unturned.”
“Could be opening a can of worms here, little bro,” he mused, though he went to work.
“Bring it on.”
sixteen
. . .
SUTTON
When I walkedinto the kitchen one Friday morning, my feet were dragging after a particularly long, hellacious shift the night before.
Ihatedworking on fire victims.
Lane was already there, and he handed me a cup of something warm. I dropped my bag unceremoniously on the floor, climbed onto one of the high-backed chairs at the island, and cupped it between my hands, allowing the warmth to ease my frayed nerves.
