Page 24 of Man of Lies

I just nodded. "Yeah," I said, looking out over the dark rooftops. "It usually is."

We sat in the hush of the dead hours before dawn, side by side, saying nothing. As time dragged on, the quiet softened into something that wasn't tense; it just stretched too far. A distance we couldn't quite find a way across.

Once, Ben was as familiar as my own pulse, but now I couldn't begin to guess what was going through his head. Nothing good, at any rate.

My own thoughts weren't nearly so cryptic. They came organized in a neat to-do list already stacking itself into triage. I'd need to call the supervising judge by eight, file an incident report with the Department of Corrections, check the exact wording of Ben's conditions, and see how much legal gymnastics I could pull before Vanderhoff got wind and made it impossible to contain. I'd have to loop in Colton and send him to charm the DA out of filing for remand—he was always better at playing the slick, oily back-scratching game than I was.

And that was just Monday morning.

Exhaustion was already settling like sediment into my bones. It wasn't just whiplash from the crazy night. It was the accumulation of days and years just like this, stacked on each other. I was finally starting to falter under the weight, and the grim chill in Ben's eyes only added to the pressure.

I hadn't saved him, and I couldn't fix him. Hell, I could barely keep the system from chewing him up again.

It was a damn good thing Silas and I had set those boundaries. No strings. No promises. Because if he'd expected more from me—anything at all—I'd already be failing him. At this rate, I'd be lucky to carve out time to see him before the quarter closed.

Assuming he waited that long.

Chapter Eleven

SILAS

The Dead Endwas exactly how I’d left it—loud, dark, and stinking of smoke, despite the crooked no-smoking sign nailed over the door. The stench of spilled beer and cheap cologne hit me hard enough to coat the back of my throat, but it was so familiar by this point it was almost comforting.

Technically, the parish had a three a.m. closing law. Not that it mattered. I’d never seen the sheriff’s department enforce more than parking tickets. We kept the taps open until the regulars stumbled out, and judging by the noise, that wasn’t happening any time soon. Some half-dead country-rock track wheezed out of the jukebox, fighting to be heard over the clatter of billiard balls and the scuff of boots on the sticky floor.

Hank was behind the bar, pretending to clean a glass with a rag that looked like the one I used on my bike engine. He glanced up when the door slammed behind me, breaking into that sheepish grin he always wore when he knew he’d fucked something up. Pushing forty and still looking like a kid caught stealing a beer from his old man’s fridge. Too eager to please. Too dumb not to cut corners whenever he could.

“Busy night?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Hank shrugged, setting the glass down with a clink. “Eh, the usual. A couple of loudmouths came through, but they bounced early. No big deal.”

“No big deal,” I echoed, strolling behind the bar like I owned the place—because I did—and slinging an arm around his shoulders. I tugged him close to speak low in his ear. “Except I got a call about a girl being hassled in my place while I was gone. Teen. Way too young to be here in the first place.”

Hank’s grin faltered. He started wiping his sweaty palms on his shirtfront in a self-soothing loop. “I didn’t see nothin’ like that. Honest, boss. You know that I keep my head down.”

That was why I’d hired him. Hank never asked questions. He kept the lights on and his mouth shut, which was all I needed.

I leaned close enough to watch the panic pool in his eyes. “Try again,” I drawled. “Who were they?”

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing hard, and avoided meeting my eyes. The flush creeping up his neck told me he’d seen more than he wanted to admit. “Just the regulars. The guys who hang around whenever Gator’s crew shows up. You know the ones.”

“Did they say anything?”

Hank hesitated, gaze ping-ponging around the bar as if checking for eavesdroppers. “One of ’em mentioned a late delivery,” he muttered. “Didn’t seem like much at the time.”

“And you didn’t think to call me?” I growled, dropping him so fast that he stumbled back a step. I’d never have known if I hadn’t gotten a heads-up from one of my regulars after Mason ditched me.

He blinked, caught off guard by the coldness in my tone, and retreated further behind the counter. His hapless, hangdog expression triggered violent impulses in me, and I forced myself to draw a steadying breath. “You know how to reach me, Hank. If someone’s running their mouth about drop-offs in my bar, I want to hear about itbeforeit circles back through the swamp.”

Because it always did. Eventually.

If I hadn’t already been on edge from Mason ghosting me, I might’ve let it slide. But now? I wasn’t in the mood to play nice.

I hated to admit it, but what pissed me off the most was that I wouldn’t have done anything different. Even if I’d been standing here when it happened, my hands would’ve stayed in my pockets. I wasn’t in a position to interfere. Not yet. Ultimately, the girls I tried to protect would probably be safer on the street.

Some nights, that sat heavier than others.

Once I’d unclenched my jaw, I clapped him on the back—hard. “From now on, you tell meeverything. Right down to how much toilet paper they’re going through. Got me?”

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