The sun was high and merciless when we walked back to the Tahoe, the heat pressing down like a physical weight. I could feel sweat gathering at the small of my back, the silk of my blouse clinging uncomfortably to my skin.
Jack started the engine and cranked the air-conditioning up high. Neither of us spoke for a moment, letting the cold air wash over us.
“Tiana Williams,” he finally said. “First National Bank.”
“Let’s see if she’s in,” I said. “Word will have traveled. I wonder if someone reached out to her.”
Jack pulled out of the construction site, tires crunching over gravel. I stared out the window at the passing scenery—strip malls and fast-food restaurants, a gas station, a church with a message board out front promising that God had a plan. The ordinary landscape of King George County, going about its ordinary business while we chased down the details of a young man’s death.
I thought about Dre Washington—twenty-four years old, working construction by day, training to box by night. Sending money to his mother, saving for a future, falling in love with a girl at the bank. By all accounts, he’d been doing everything right. Playing by the rules, working toward something better.
And yet someone had tortured him for days and put a bullet in the back of his head.
The disconnect nagged at me. Good kids from stable backgrounds didn’t usually end up dead in dumpsters. Somewhere in the life Dre had been living, there was a shadow we hadn’t found yet. A door that led somewhere darker than construction sites and boxing gyms.
Thirty thousand dollars in cash hidden behind a wall. A betting slip tucked in a nightstand drawer. A trainer who knew secrets Dre’s own mother thought nobody else had.
The pieces were there. We just hadn’t figured out how they fit together yet.
“What are you thinking?” Jack asked.
“I’m thinking everybody loved Dre Washington. He was a good kid, a hard worker, devoted to his mother, crazy about his girlfriend.” I turned to look at Jack’s profile, the set of his jaw, the focus in his eyes. “But somebody tortured him for days before they killed him. That’s not random. That’s not a robbery gone wrong. That’s personal.”
“Or professional.” Jack’s hands tightened on the wheel. “We already know what his body told us. This was organized. Infrastructure. But infrastructure needs a revenue stream, and right now the only one we’ve found is a duffle bag full of cash and a betting slip nobody wants to claim.”
“Vic shut down the second you mentioned that slip.”
“He did. And everybody keeps painting the same picture of Dre—the good kid, the hard worker, the one who was going to make it. But somebody in his life knew a different version of him.” Jack glanced at me. “I’m not saying he was a bad kid. But good kids can get pulled into bad situations. Especially when they’re desperate to make something of themselves.”
I thought about the apartment we’d searched. The military precision, the monk-like discipline, the protein powder and meal prep containers. Dre had been building toward something. Working toward a future he could see clearly in his mind.
What had he been willing to do to get there?
“Let’s see what Tiana has to say,” I said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
First National Bank sat on the corner of Main and Commerce, sandwiched between a payday loan shop and a bail bondsman. It was a corner where money was always tight and options were few. The interior was aggressively air conditioned and smelled like old carpet.
I spotted her immediately.
Tiana Williams was beautiful in that way that made you look twice and then look again. Mixed race—Black and Asian, if I had to guess—with exotic features that drew the eye. High cheekbones, full lips, dark eyes tilted slightly at the corners. Her hair was pure silk, black and shining, pulled back in a low bun that couldn’t quite contain its thickness. She was dressed professionally in a cream-colored blouse and simple gold studs, but there was nothing simple about her.
She glanced up as we approached and registered Jack’s badge. Something flickered in those red-rimmed eyes—not surprise, but resignation. Like she’d been waiting for us.
“Ms. Williams?” Jack kept his voice low, mindful of the customers nearby. “I’m Sheriff Lawson. This is Dr. Graves. Is there somewhere private we can talk?”
She nodded and turned to the teller beside her—an older woman with kind eyes and gray braids. “Rita, can you cover for me?”
Rita reached over and squeezed her arm. “Take as long as you need, baby.”
The breakroom smelled like burnt coffee and leftover microwave meals. Motivational posters lined the walls—eagles soaring, mountains being climbed. The kind of corporate inspiration that meant nothing to people who were just trying to survive until Friday.
Tiana didn’t sit. Just stood by the window, arms wrapped around herself, staring at the parking lot.
“I already know,” she said quietly. “About Dre.”
“Who told you?” Jack asked.
