Page 83 of The Hanging Dolls
A man walked in through the main doors. It was 10 p.m. and the station was mostly empty. The minute Zoe saw him, her pulse quickened.
It was Benny.
His face was bruised and movements deliberate. An arm in a sling. What the hell was he doing here?
“What is it?” Aiden’s eyes bounced between her and Benny. “You know him?”
“No. But I should help.”
Benny approached one of the desks where a uniformed officer sat. “I need to file a report.”
“I’ll take this!” Zoe jumped up from her chair and rushed to him, signaling the cop to stay seated. “I’m Agent Storm from the FBI. You are?”
Benny’s eyes widened, his mouth falling open. “You’re in the FBI?”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. But she pretended to take notes. “Just shut up, Benny. What happened? What are you doing in Harborwood?”
“My grandmother lives here so I was visiting,” he said, rubbing his jaw where the bruise was darkest. “A bastard took a shot at me.”
“Betting gone wrong?”
He was still staring at her like she had grown two heads. “You’re FBI? What the hell, Z?”
A pause. Her eyes darted to Aiden who was watching their interaction like a hawk, surely prying open the cracks. “Who I am at your club and who I am outside are totally unrelated. Okay?” He didn’t look convinced so she smiled sweetly. “You’ve known me at least a couple years, Benny. If I wanted to harm your business, I would have done so already. I see crazy shit at this job and need a space to let out my frustrations so I do it at your club. Don’t overthink it, okay? Just give me the details and don’t tell anyone here. I got a rep to maintain.”
He grunted. “All right.”
She made a note of the details. Luckily, it wasn’t anything that could be traced back to her. Her eyes bore into his. “Why have you been ignoring my messages? I need a fight.”
“I was busy with this. In a few days. I need time to recover,” he said, avoiding eye contact. “I’ll be in touch. Just don’t come after me. I’m a businessman and I pay taxes.” He was backtracking and before Zoe could respond, he was exiting the station, almost stumbling on his way out.
She was about to leave when she saw Travis, his face contorted.
“Everything okay?”
He clenched his jaw. “I was just at Carly’s. Scott showed up drunk and almost attacked her.”
“What?” Her knees knocked into each other.
“Turns out Carly lied to Scott about him being Lucy’s father because she thought we’d take the case more seriously,” he said tartly.
Zoe bit her tongue. She shouldn’t have said anything to Scott, especially knowing that he had relapsed and was unpredictable. “What happens now?”
“I called some guys to take Scott home so that he can sleep it off. Carly isn’t pressing any charges. But Scott’s suspension just got official.”
FORTY-SIX
Travis had always felt a gnawing unease when it came to Ryan. The late-night phone calls, the secretive behavior, the friends he never introduced to his father—everything about Ryan screamed trouble. But Travis had always chalked it up to teenage rebellion, a phase that would pass with time. He was refusing to believe the worst, secretly hoping that if they didn’t look at that bad thing it would go away. But he couldn’t do that anymore.
Tonight that unease had turned into a full-blown knot of dread in his stomach, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong.
It was just past midnight when Travis crept up the stairs to Ryan’s room, his heart thudding in his chest. Ryan was out. Again. He had no idea where he was. Again.
The door creaked open with an eerie slowness. There was a faint smell of sweat in the room, and something else—something metallic and unsettling. Travis hesitated for a moment—he didn’t want to invade Ryan’s privacy. But the worry swallowed that hesitation whole.
He started with his desk, rifling through drawers filled with scribbled notes, broken pencils, and other random things thatoffered no clues. But then, behind a stack of old comic books, he found it: a small, battered shoebox with the lid slightly askew.
Travis pulled it out, his hands trembling as he pried the lid off. Inside were photographs—dozens of them, haphazardly thrown together. As he started flipping through them, his breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t breathe. This couldn’t be happening.
