Page 21 of Break You

Me: Can you talk?

The seconds between pushing send and receiving Mike’s reply were agonizing.

Mike: Yes, I’m here. I’ll call you.

I knew he’d call me back from a burner phone, as he always did. I answered the call almost before the phone started ringing.

“Mike.”

“Hello Mr. Cross.”

“Mike, for the thousandth time, and for the love of God, please fucking call me Xavier. Mr. Cross is my prick of a father and his even bigger prick of a father. I never want to be reminded that their blood flows through my veins.”

“Xavier.”

“That’s better. You have news for me?”

“I do. It’s about Pixie Walters.” Dur. That was what I was paying him for. Did he think I expected him just to call for fun?

“This one has taken me longer than I anticipated, but it was a tough brief. Walters isn’t an easy target. He maintains few relationships, personal or otherwise. No romantic partner or even a regular sexual partner. Little to no family—father unknown, estranged from his mother. Pretty much an island.” Probably because he’s a fucking sociopath. “But I don’t give up that easily. Years of experience has taught me that everybody has something or someone they care about, even if it’s a pet or their first love from grade school. So, I kept digging. I kept shaking that tree, and sure enough, I found his soft underbelly.”

There was an extended pause where I barely managed to refrain from punching the wall.

“Well? Are you gonna make me beg or are you waiting for an invitation from the Queen of fucking England? Shoot!”

“So, it’s not something he makes public, and they have next to no face-to-face contact. In fact, he keeps in touch with her via a phone he seems to use for nothing else, which made it harder to trace.”

“Her? Are you doing this on purpose? Who?”

“I’m getting there. He has a sister.” Holy shit. We hit the fucking jackpot! “A younger half-sister, to be exact.”

B-I-N-G-O B-A-N-G-O, we’re in motherfucking business!

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Different surnames, and like I told you before, he’s also pretty much estranged from the mother, bar a few phone calls a year, for the past few years, so it was extremely difficult to make the connection.”

Okay, I hear you. So, you’re good at your job, what do you want, a fucking medal?

“Actually, it’s a small world, because she also attends Heathcote University.” That was a small world! “Maybe you may even know her.”

“I very much doubt it. There are fifteen thousand students here. The chances are slim to no-fucking-way, plus nobody I know has drug dealers for relatives.”

“I understand. She’s also a sophomore, so that may make it even less likely.”

“I guess. So, what’s her name.”

“Ms. Rukiya Gordon, but she seems to commonly go by—”

“Rocky.” Mother. Fucker.

“Correct. So, am I right in saying that you do know Ms. Gordon?”

Son. Of. A. Fucking. Motherfucking. Bitch. “Unfortunately, yes.” Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Interesting.” His tone was dry. Though that was Mike twenty-four seven, so I couldn’t really read much into it.

“I’ll fucking say. They don’t look at all alike. Rocky and Pixie.” Not that it was relevant, but they looked just about as different from each other as two people could look. Not only was he white and she black, but he was huge—tall, with massive hands and feet, like some kind of giant. Hence the nickname, I guessed. She was very much average size, if not on the smaller side.

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