Nashwokewithastart, a crick in his neck and a dull throb behind his eyes.Took him a second to place where he was—Margie’s living room, slumped on her lumpy as hell sofa, boots still on.He’d only meant to sit for a minute, knock back a coffee and sober the fuck up, but the booze had dragged him under.Unless…Margie had slipped one of her nerve pills into his cup.Mental note:never drink anything that woman hands him.
He pushed upright, vertebrae popping, and dragged a hand down his face.The room was dark, light slipping in at the edges; coffee drifted from the kitchen—Margie already at it.He followed the scent, bare boards creaking under his boots…and stopped cold in the entryway.
Cassie sat at the table, shoulders curled forward, hair a mess like she’d been dragging her hands through it.In front of her sat a cardboard box, Connor’s name scrawled messy on one side, its contents spread across the table.
His old wallet lay open, the brown leather worn soft from years in his back pocket.The slots were emptied out—driver’s license, Nash’s missing credit card—a handful of crumpled receipts, and what looked like a photograph folded in half.
A half-pack of Juicy Fruit sat off to the side—the brand Connor had chewed forever.A cheap blue lighter.A scatter of coins.His black-bone pocketknife lay open, the blade nicked in several places.His silver Kings’ ring sat stark among it all, heavy and unmistakable.
Nash’s throat worked, suddenly dry as the bottom of a bottle.Watching her there, small as she looked, surrounded by all that remained of her brother, his chest went and locked right up on him.
Cassie glanced up sharply, her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks blotchy.
“Just grabbin’ some coffee,” he muttered, pushing forward.
“There’s a coin.”Her voice was rough with tears, barely audible.
Nash paused midway to the pot, turning.“What?”
She opened her hand, revealing a recovery coin, bronze-colored, stamped with a triangle, a circle inside of it.A 1 was engraved inside the circle.One month.Thirty days of sobriety.
“There’s a coin,” she repeated, fresh tears brimming.
Nash shook his head, voice low.“He had ’em before.Plenty.They hand ’em out at that church off Route 19—Saint somethin’ or other.Sometimes it was a month, sometimes three.Didn’t matter.He never stuck with it.”
Her lips trembled.“But he didn’t have any other ones—just this one.”
“Gimme a sec,” Nash muttered, turning back to the pot.He poured himself a mug and stood there with his back to her, hand braced on the counter, steeling against the ache in his chest.That goddamn box was enough to knock him sideways—Connor’s whole life whittled down to…fucking scraps.But Cassie…back in Clifton after all this time and bent over what little remained…was a whole other kind of blow.He forced breath in, out, shoving everything down where it wouldn’t show.
Returning to the table, he took the chair opposite her.Setting the mug down, he grabbed the coin, turning it over.Bronze still shiny, triangle and circle sharp.The motto—To Thine Own Self Be True—not worn down at all.It was new.Too new.Most things that spent time in Connor’s pockets came out looking beat to hell.
“He always wanted me to think he was tryin’,” Nash muttered.“He’d show up with these sometimes, use it to talk his way back in.Next thing I know, the safe’s cleaned out and half the booze is gone.”
Cassie’s face pinched tight, the hope in her eyes flaring and breaking all at once.“When was the last time you saw him?”
Nash shook his head, thinking back—Connor on his doorstep, begging for money, claiming he was hungry but refusing food.“Hell, three weeks ago maybe.And he wasn’t sober—not even close.”
He lifted the chip between two fingers, the shiny bronze catching the early morning light.“This?It don’t mean shit.Not for him.”
“But the sheriff’s office,” Cassie rasped, clearing her throat.“They said he had fentanyl and meth on him, enough that they had to log it as intent to distribute—”
Nash’s head snapped up.Connor, dealing weight?No way.Sounded more like Sheriff Tate was spinning a story.
“They said he had a ton of cash on him too,” she continued.“They kept pushing me for information on who he was working for.”
Working for.Christ.Nash couldn’t even get Connor to come to work—or if he did show, stay awake long enough to finish a shift.The man was always broke, always pawning shit that wasn’t his just to get by.
“And then Ollie tells me that the Kings have expanded—that you’re working with the Silver Demons now—and that you know everything that goes on in your territory.”She paused, looking him in the eye.
Nash’s hand closed around the chip, fighting the urge to slam his fist against the table.This wasn’t about Connor at all.This was about the law playing Cassie and using her brother’s death to paint a target on the Kings.
“Are you kidding me?You’re listenin’ to Officer Fuckin’ Friendly?”
“Why would he lie?”she demanded.
“You been gone so long you’re lettin’ that piece-of-shit traitor put ideas in your head?”Nash shot back.
“Not sure how he’s any different than you—badge or cut, you’re all the same."
