“Carter,” Vaughn says, his tone gruff like I pulled him out of bed. “What’s going on? Why are you—”
“I have the file,” I snap, staring at the pictures of Vaughn littering the screen. “What I’m making of this right now doesn’t make you look good.”
“I can explain, it’s—”
“Get on the fucking road, Vaughn.”
I end the call and send him my address, my heartrate spiking higher when Hailey pads across the room, stopping on Ryder’s left.
A soft gasp falls from her lips, eyes filling with tears.
39
HAILEY
Whenever my father was working a case, he’d pin pictures, maps, and any leads he had to the corkboard on the wall of his office back in Florida. Then he’d sit in his chair for hours every day, staring at the visual map.
It looked like something straight from any detective movie ever. He even used different-colored strings to group the evidence. For a long time, every time I went in there to see him, I saw that man’s face.
Dad used to call Octavius Grey a ghost. He knew Grey led the biggest drug ring in Tampa, but despite years of investigating, he couldn’t find enough evidence to lock him behind bars.
My eyes brim with tears as I stare at a picture of my dad, the epitome of law and order, the man I’ve looked up to for years...
Accepting a bribe from Octavius Grey. He’s holding an envelope stuffed with hundred-dollar bills.
My stomach churns with nausea as I flick through the pictures. Each one showing envelopes of cash being passed fromhand to hand. Passed into Dad’s hands. I click faster and faster, the sequences of images blurring into little movie clips.
“Stop,” Koby says, stepping closer. “Go back.”
I glance over my shoulder, catching Carter’s concerned gaze. His features pinch and his hands ball into fists—a look I’ve seen too many times. He’s worried. The pathological protectiveness is written all over his face, making me realize tears are dripping down my nose.
“What did you see?” I ask, marshaling the hurt and sense of betrayal tearing me apart.
I’m questioning everything. Every single interaction I’ve had with Dad since the hospital. The concern in his voice... was it concern or fear? Did he send me to Lakeside to protectmeorthe evidence? Was he keeping me safe or covering his own ass?
Koby gently shuffles me aside, bending over the laptop to back up a few images, stopping on one in a strip club, judging by the women writhing around poles and the dimmed red lights. But that’s not what caught his attention. When I realize what did, bile climbs up my throat.
Sitting in the same booth as Dad and Octavius, while an envelope of cash changes hands, is Alex Fletcher.
“Looks like Alex was on the take as well,” Koby says.
“Yeah, but given we never found anything on him,” Ryder clips, “maybe he wasn’t even a fucking cop. Grey probably planted him with Vaughn. I bet his name wasn’t even Alex.”
I can’t process the information fast enough. All these years when Dad worked as a cop replay in my mind. Everything he said, how much he detested mafia men, the precautions he took whenever he was investigating someone particularly dangerous. He sent me and Mom to my grandparents in Idaho again and again, worried we’d get caught in a backlash. One time, a cop trailed me from class to class because Dad couldn’t take me outof school during exams, and they coincided with him moving in on yet another big fish.
And now I find out he not only worked with the man he spent months investigating, not only did he flush his entire moral code down the drain, but he invited a criminal into our house.
He left me alone with him so many times. Turned a blind eye while we sneaked around...
It’s too much to comprehend. My worldview, everything I knew about my own father, shatters before my eyes.
The evidence was supposed to answer questions, not flood my mind with more.
I back away from the screen, unsure how to proceed. Unsure what to believe. “This isn’t right...” I whisper, my back hitting the kitchen cupboards. “I... I need a minute.”
The weight of their gazes follows me as I rush upstairs, two steps at a time. My mind’s a nest of drunk hornets. Too many thoughts fight for attention, spiking my anxiety so high I’m not far off hyperventilating. I burst into the bedroom, shaking all over. One second, I think there’s a rational explanation and in the next breath I’m drowning in hurt, hatred, confusion, and fear.
It’s too much. I don’t know how to stop the tornado tearing through my head. Pacing the room doesn’t help. Every footstep is a new idea, a new possibility. Nothing I conjure makes me feel any better.
