Page 92 of Pulling Strings

I repeated Holland’s order and added an Americano for myself, then pulled a few bills from my wallet while triple-checking nothing had gone missing while it was in Thorngate’s care.

With a bob of her head, the waitress took the money and scurried to the register. A few moments later, the espresso machine fired up, whooshing steam and brewing shots. The drinks were placed on the counter, white mugs in matching saucers, and I carried them back to the table.

“You scared her,” Holland mused as I set the cups down.

“I tend to have that effect on people.”

I sipped the Americano. Bitter and blisteringly hot, it could have used a splash of milk, but I’d manage without.

In contrast, Holland appeared more interested in staring at her latte than drinking it. She’d done most of the talking during my incarceration, when she stood to gain everything I would have lost. I was content to let her lead this conversation, as well, so long as I got the final word.

“You said you had something you wanted to discuss?” she asked.

The part of the day I hadn’t spent at the impound lot or cleaning up the motel room had been used to consider this talk. Grimm, as Jacoby Thatcher, had crafted a compelling narrative. Not a story I was eager to perpetuate, but it was a start.

“I’ve had some time to think—”

“Not much time.” She scoffed. “I just saw you last night.”

She reminded me suddenly of her younger self. Tomboyish and sharp, she’d been one of the few people who could out-argue me. To be fair, she’d bested me at more than that. I admired her before I loved her. She was the first and last girl for whom I had such feelings.

“It doesn’t take long for a man to realize he’s made a mistake,” I said.

Holland frowned for a long moment, then shook her head. “Okay, I’ll bite. What mistake?”

“Well, you know about the prison break.”

The investigator’s skepticism persisted as she replied, “I was there.”

“So was I,” I continued. “After the Bloody Hex hadcome and gone. They left me behind. You can see how that might have given me cause to reconsider my previously steadfast loyalties.”

“And then, I imagine, Thatcher’s testimony wounded your pride. A hard knock, but I told you as much. You’re a weapon. Or a victim.” She lifted her latte for a drink before adding in a low voice, “Not that I buy that.”

As glad as I was that she didn’t believe it, I focused on keeping my expression stoic as I said, “Regardless. I don’t appreciate being controlled by anyone. Which is why I couldn’t accept your previous offer. Decades in jail waiting for a distant, unlikely redemption is a bad deal, no matter how you slice it.”

Holland cleared her throat and shifted in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Well, jail’s off the table.” A disappointment to her, from the looks of it. “So, what instead?”

The mug warmed my hands, a sensation as nostalgic as the bistro itself. “You said something about the investigative team.”

She coughed a laugh. “Youwantto be thrown to the wolves? Be my guest.”

Surprise must have shown on my face, prompting her to explain, “You’re a cop killer, Fitch. They hate you.”

“Ah, ah!” I ticked a finger at her. “No killers here. Just us innocent folks.”

Her posture went rigid as shades of her post-trial rage returned.

“Look,” she said. “If we’re going to have any kind of discussion, I want to keep the bullshit out of it. Nothing you can say will overturn the court’s decision, so let’s play this straight. Any investigator worth their salt would take a shot at you given the chance. And, if they managed to kill you, we would probably throw them a party. It’s not a crowd you want to mingle with. Oil and water. Understand?”

I understood. I didn’twantto fraternize with any of her badge-toting friends, and I knew the risks, besides. My life was in danger from more than Capitol workers with an ax to grind. It didn’t take police training to point a gun and shoot.

I decided not to press the comment about any decent investigator taking a shot at me. It bore consideration, though, since Holland was an investigator and hadn’t tried to put me down.

“So, what did you have in mind?” I swallowed a bit more of the Americano. “I hardly think you just gave me your card for my little black book.”

She held up a hand. “Before we get into that, tell me: what do you hope to gain from this? And how can I know you’re trustworthy? You’ve shown no signs of remorse and no interest in genuine change. Is it just a revenge plot? They hurt you, and now you want to hurt them back? Because I’m not interested in facilitating that.”

Our discussions in Thorngate’s visiting room were fresh enough in my mind that I could draw from them. She’d told me what she wanted to hear, so I would give her nothing less.

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