“Not for long.”
Clay smirked lazily. “It’s already longer than you planned,” he said. “Right?”
By about a year—And that wasn’t something Grade wanted to talk about or think about most days.
“I don’t see what my plans have to do with you,” he said. “We’re not friends.”
Clay laughed and reached out to ruffle Grade’s hair. The casual intimacy of it caught Grade off guard. Before he could decide whether to pull away from the rough caress or lean into it, Clay was finished.
“It’s cute when you pretend you’re not into me,” he said.
“Into you?” Grade started to protest. “I am not—”
Before he could finish, Clay had gotten out of the car. The door shut on Grade’s “… into you…” as Clay started down the street. His jeans were already low-slung, and the gun shoved into the waistband—black and stark against his grubby white T-shirt—made them slide lower. He looked like a walking “yeah, right” to Grade’s weak lie.
“So what?” Grade muttered to himself as he unclipped the seat belt. “Just because I want to get laid doesn’t mean he’s right about anything else.”
He scrambled out of the car and jogged along the uneven pavement until he caught up with Grade at the gate to 89 Heron Drive. It didn’t look much different from the houses on either side. The Astroturf lawn was sun-faded from vivid green to a murky khaki, and there was a heavy-duty padlock on the front door, bright and shiny against the worn white-painted wood.
“I thought we were supposed to meet someone here,” Grade said as Clay reached over the gate to unlock it. “Shouldn’t we wait for them?”
The gate swung open halfway and jammed, crooked on old hinges. Clay stepped backward through the gap, his arms spread.
“Think of it this way,” he said. “He should have been on time. And for the record? An old friend did vouch for Hadley, but he wasn’t a cellmate of mine. I’ve never been sent to a civilian prison.”
He winked—just in case Grade had missed the wriggle room he’d left himself there—and turned to head up the path. Grade followed on his heels. They had just gotten to the padlocked door—Clay’s fist cocked back to hammer on the wood—when a gunshot blast echoed from inside the house.
Grade jumped and stumbled backward. It wasn’t the first time he’d ever heard a gunshot. Sometimes he’d arrive at the scene and the crime hadn’t finished. Or once, when they’d pre-booked and got their times wrong, it hadn’t even started. That had always been distanced from him. Not his business. Literally, not until it was all over.
This time, it all felt a bit more personal.
“What the—” he spluttered.
Inside the house, a woman screamed. It had the low, raw edge that pain gave a voice, not the shrill bite of panic. For some reason, Grade reached for the door to try and get to her.
Clay grabbed his shoulder and dragged him back down the path to the fence. On the other side of the road, the rottweiler in the yard they’d passed earlier was going mad on the end of a heavy chain as it snapped its teeth at the disturbance.
“Stay—” Clay shoved him out the gate and onto the pavement. “—here. Wait for Harry.”
He pulled his gun and turned back toward the house.
“Wait,” Grade blurted. “Wait. I don’t even know who Harry is. How am I supposed to wait for him? He could be anyone—”
Clay hesitated and then turned back. He looked exasperated.
“Harry Jenkins,” he said. “You can’t miss him. Big guy. Short hair—”
“No. Yeah, that’s OK,” Grade admittedly reluctantly. “I know Harry. My mom used to take care of his grandma.”
A brief grim smile crossed Clay’s face.
“Small towns,” he said dryly. “You gotta love ’em. Stay here.”
Chapter Ten
Clay held hisgun high and ready against his chest as he edged up to the front of the house. He made one last “stay the fuck there” gesture to Grade—who grimaced and bounced on his toes but stayed at the gate—and pressed his ear to the door. There were raised voices inside, but not close enough to the front of the house that he could make them out, and the muffled sound of heavy, ragged sobs.
The woman who’d screamed.
