“It wasn’t Jacob,” Simon said. He hoped that was the truth. “What happened to Clayton scared the hell out of him. All he wants is to get out of town in one piece.”
“Maybe Clayton told someone what he was doing, then,” Dev snapped impatiently. “It doesn’t even matter. Whoever it came from, they havesomething, and until I can prove it’s bullshit, I’ve been suspended by the board. Fuckers.”
Simon used his free hand to shove the tails of his shirt into his trousers. He grabbed for his gun and slung the strap over his shoulder. “I can come over now. If whoever was behind Clayton’s death has anything to do with this, you could be in danger.”
“I’m a big boy.”
“Callie could be in danger.”
Dev grunted, and Simon heard a car door beep. “Stop it. I’m putting up with your security team following me around like sad puppies. They can keep an eye on Callie at the house. We’re fine. Right now what I need is for you to stay where you are. Understood?”
“Yeah,” Simon said flatly. He leaned back against the counter, tucked the phone against his shoulder, and dug his knuckles into the knot of cold muscle in his shoulder. “Call me if you need anything.”
“I need this last month to have not happened,” Dev grunted sourly. The line went dead. Simon plucked the phone away from his ear, wrapped his hand around it, and squeezed until his knuckles ached. He wanted a fight, but failing that…. Everything in the apartment had its place, including the half-empty bottle of whiskey that he’d “forgotten about” in the back of the cupboard—an excuse that might have qualified as half-assed, if it weren’t for the fact that Simon had been on the wagon since before he moved in.
He pulled the heavy bottle out from behind the balsamic and the sweet-chili sauce bottles and poured the honey-yellow liquid into a tumbler. The first swig was harsh, a shock of booze and iodine, but the second was mellower. Or his tongue had just remembered how not to taste it.
It was a bad idea, but fuck it.
He finished the glass and poured himself another. Then he took it and the bottle to the couch. Stretching his legs out in front of him, he took another drink and let it soak into his tongue while he stared at the blank walls.
He swallowed and let the whiskey blur through him. Maybe he’d get that fight after all.
The phone woke him up. It had gotten dark and there was an empty bottle on the table. Simon rolled off the couch, and his throbbing head and sour stomach reminded him exactly where the booze had gotten to as he staggered to grab the phone.
“What?” he growled.
It was Dev, his voice rough and impatient, as though it had been Simon who calledhimand was wasting his time with questions. “You got the news on?”
“No.”
“Turn it on.”
He hung up. Simon growled and threw the phone onto the counter, and the plastic skidded along the polished melamine until it bounced off a can. He grabbed the half-drunk jug of orange juice from the fridge, and took a drink to rinse the musty taste off his tongue. The remote was lying on the floor, so he picked it up, turned the TV on, and squinted painfully at the blare and glare of a cereal commercial. He turned it down to a mutter and flicked up through the channels until he hit the local news.
“—in the river this morning. The suspect was apprehended at his home this afternoon.”
It meant nothing. Simon scrubbed the heel of his hand over his eye and tried to grind out the ache while he scowled at the TV. The shot cut to one of the journalists standing in Southtown, staring into the camera with a solemn expression on his face.
“We don’t know, Lisa, what connection the suspect had with Harry Clayton. Details are sparse, and his neighbors say that he moved in just last week.”
“Fuck,” Simon spat out as he finally put the pieces together.
Jacob wasnotheading to Bali, and despite that crawling snake in Simon’s brain, it wasn’t a good thing.
Chapter Nine
IT WASthesmellin the cells that Jacob couldn’t get over—a sour, years-old fug of sweat, spunk, sick, and shit, overlaid with the eye-watering ammonia reek of bleach. After a night spent trying to breathe through his mouth, it was a relief when a uniform came down, keys rattling, and escorted him back up to the interview room.
The man shoved him roughly into a chair with a hand heavy on his shoulder. Then he left Jacob alone with his thoughts and the mirror. He stared at his reflection in the wall of dark glass and wondered if there was already someone on the other side watching him.
If there was, he looked like shit. His bruises were at peak ripeness. His lip—resplit when they arrested him—was scabbed and puffy. They’d sent a doctor to check him over, but all that got him was a couple of painkillers and a cold gel slick of ointment between his knuckles.
But looking pathetic might be more useful here than it had been with Simon.
He sat back in the hard chair, and the back dug into his shoulders as he tapped his fingers on the table.
The last time he was in a cell, he was fourteen and his boyfriend was with him. They’d been caught fucking in the town cemetery, although the officer who caught them told his father they’d been drinking underage. Which theyhadbeen doing as well.
