Page 61 of Sinful Promise
“I did!”I didn’t. I ignored that motherfucker and hoped to never hear his name again. “The shit he was selling us was useless. I told you already.”
“It’s notalluseless,” he snarls. “He gave me the fucking knife!”
“And how do you knowthis,” I point at the phone, “was the knife used on Fentone? How do you know Garzo didn’t just sell you any old knife and call it good?”
“Because we hadn’t—westillhaven’t—made public the murder weapon, Arch. He can’t have known.”
“We haven’t made public the fact Fentone was probably killed by two perps, either. And guess what? No one has mentioned it yet. So that kinda tells me no one witnessed shit.”
“Arch—”
“Second of all, Dowel was killed by a blade, and that’s where thisvigilantebullshit came from in the first place. Doesn’t take a genius like Garzo to slap Fentone with the same brand—which means, same weapon.”
“So you’re saying youdon’tthink it was the same killer?” He turns in his seat and burns me with a stare. “You’re calling it different?”
“I’m saying Dowel was killed by someone who stood at, what? Five eight? Five nine? That’s what the profile tells us. His throat was pierced by a blade, and he was left to die on the street. InDecember. Fentone wasprobablykilled by two perps, one of which just so happened to have a knife. The other had a gun. He was killed in his bed, in the middle of the night, in the middle of March, in a fucking safehouseno onehad access to. The only similarities the two cases share is that both vics violated little girls. That’sit, Fletch! It sure as shit isn’t enough to form a pattern.”
“So you’re saying they’re not connected?” His jaw clicks with rage he so rarely holds on to. Fletch is like a flashfire: quick to lose his shit, but even quicker to let it go and move on with a smile. “You’re telling me with all your fucking heart, you don’t think the vigilante killed Fentone?”
Yes. Fuck. Yes, the vigilante took Fentone out too.
But no matter the love I have for Charlie Fletcher, it pales in comparison to what I feel for Minka. It sucks, and I never want to have to choose. But if he insists on looking me in the eye and forcing my hand, then Minka wins. Every time.
I will die putting her above everyone else.
“I do not think the two cases connect.” Lie. Lie. Lie like my life depends on it. Because… it does. I lick my lips and swallow to moisten my dry throat. “They’re just too different.”
He studies my face. My expression. His eyes drop to my lips, then to my jaw, so even I know he can see how it grits.
Pulling a deep breath in through his nose, he firms his expression and nods. “Okay. You think the knife is bullshit?”
“I don’t know.”Nope. That’s the one. “Where’d he say he got it?”
“Apparently, a buddy of his pulled it out of a trashcan near the crime scene.” Glancing down, he taps his screen again before it goes black. “Said the dude gave it to him, so he brought it to us.”
“And who is the friend?” I nod toward Benji. “Him?”
“Nah, he’s not giving up the friend’s name. But Garz admits the friend didn’t see anyone around. He just got the knife.”
When the group of women on the dancefloor drink and holler, I look in their direction and frown. But I’m thinking of Anthony Garzman. And Charlie Fletcher. And vigilante fuckin’ justice.
“Are there prints on the knife?” I ask.
Bringing my gaze back, I open my mouth to repeat myself, in case he didn’t hear me. But Fletch shrugs.
“I sent it over for testing. But so far, nothing is popping. Hopefully we get something back from the lab.”
My eyes narrow in thought. “Like what?”
“The cornstarch. If nothing else, that’ll make a connect. Not from Dowel to Fentone. But definitely from Fentone to the knife.”
“Right. Maybe,” I murmur. I drag my bottom lip between my teeth and walk a delicate tightrope between protecting my wife, and straight up destroying whatever my best friend and I have. “Did Garzo say anything else?”
He shakes his head and pushes up to stand. “Nah, that was it.” Snatching his phone and sliding it into his back pocket, he comes around the table with a sigh and claps me on the shoulder. “Whatever. Let’s go home. Where’s Delicious?”
“At the apartment,” I sigh. Standing from my stool, I drop my hands into my pockets and follow a single step behind him. “With my brothers. Which is a dangerous fucking recipe on the best of days.”
We circle crowds of dancers, and take a wide berth when some want to touch. Or play. Some smile and crook their fingers. Others salute us with their cocktails, while more simply grind on each other and makeout without a care in the world.
