The word lands like a hand around my throat.
Motive. I run the inventory without meaning to. Two years of harassment documented on his phone. His texts on Friday night. The invitation I declined. The fact that I was drunk and disoriented and had to be brought home by an officer the same weekend he died. Every piece of it individually explainable, collectively damning.
"They're going to think I wanted him dead," I say quietly. "That I finally snapped. Or that I was getting back at him for—" I gesture vaguely at all of it.
"Harvee." Donna puts a hand on my arm. "You didn't do anything."
I nod.
I know I didn't do anything.
So why does it already feel like a verdict?
CHAPTER 17
DIEGO
I pull up to the law firm Monday morning to scope out the situation. Lucky for me, it just looks like I’m doing my routine weekday run. There are cops everywhere.
I don’t get nervous, so this is easy. I start my jog at the other end of the complex to look clueless, earbuds in, pace steady.
They pay me no mind as I keep time on my watch. I scan the lot, the doors, the uniforms. Until my eyes catch on her wavy blonde hair. Goldilocks.
She’s standing in front of the building, being interviewed by police. One of the officers is towering over her, too close. She looks nervous and scared, arms wrapped around herself.
Fuck. I want to be next to her so he has to take three steps back and let her breathe. I’d love to just breathe her in.
They are wrapping up as I get closer. I watch him close his notebook. They took down her information.
Do they think she knows something? Did she see more than I thought?
I can’t risk any of them seeing or questioning me, so I turn on my heel and jog the other direction, cutting back toward my truck. My mind races as fast as my legs.
Should I follow her home after she’s off for the day?
There’s this insatiable pull to keep an eye on her. Especially after Friday.
I reach my truck and my phone buzzes in my pocket.
“Aye,” I answer Raul’s call as I slam my truck door and hit the lock.
“Where you at, DJ?”
“The firm, but parked on the other side of the complex. Any word?”
“Yeah, come over.”
“Aight, on my way.”
I pull up to Uncle Ernie’s and go to knock, but the door swings open before my hand can make contact. Raul grabs my arm and yanks me inside with a spring in his step. I haven’t seen him this giddy since we were kids.
He drags me through the rundown trailer.
Panels are peeling off the walls, the floor creaks under our feet.
I make a mental note of everything I could fix if and when I have the time, and if I wasn’t busy being a fucking hitman again.
We turn the corner into the kitchen.