"You're doing fine," Baxter said.
“I did call Monica, and I did leave her messages, but they were to ask how she was doing, if she was okay. If she needed anything. I never threatened her. There is no way they have a legit recording of that.”
“If they have a fake one, they either know it, or they’re working on authenticating something.” Baxter set his glasses on the table. “Something happened to Monica. There’s no question about that, and they want to get to the bottom of it. I know those two cops. They aren’t the kind that chase only one lead. They’ll look at this from every angle.”
“I hope so, because sitting on this side of things feels pretty shitty.”
The door opened, and Brian came in alone. He stood at the end of the table with his hands in his pockets. "You're free to go, Mr. Chase. We'd ask that you stay in the Seattle and Whidbey Island area."
Baxter snapped his briefcase shut. "Is my client still a person of interest?"
"We may have additional questions." Brian held the door open. “And if you can think of anything that you’d like to add, or that might help, please don’t hesitate to reach out.”
“We’ll do that.” Baxter waved Noah toward the door, and Noah didn’t hesitate. He raced through the corridors like he was on fire.
Jag was in the lobby, arms crossed, and he fell into step beside Noah the moment they reached him. The three of them pushed through the front doors, and the cold air hit Noah in the face like an arctic freeze.
He let out a long breath and stopped at the edge of the parking lot, staring at Jag with this pulse hammering in his throat. “What did they ask you about?”
“Just wanted to know where I was on Friday night. Once I told them, they let me in on a few things, and Monica's timeline doesn't add up," Jag said. "The window she gave them for the attack—you were on Whidbey with Ziggy and me the entire time." He glanced back toward the building. "She said it happened in Seattle. About the time I showed up at Ziggy’s house. Maybe a half hour after I got there.”
"Then why are they still being cagey?" Noah asked.
"Because she was beaten badly, and they don't walk away from that regardless of where the timeline falls," Jag said. "The question is, who did it and why. And if you can help them answer that, they'll be back to ask more questions."
Noah looked at the street. He thought about his father in that visitors' room on Wednesday. He thought about the card, the puck, the flowers, and Monica Payne crying on live television with his name on her call log. He thought about Ziggy at the house right now, waiting. "We need to tell them about my father," he said. "He did this. I don't know whether Monica walked into it willingly or if she's another person he used, but Matias is behind it all. I know it."
Jag glanced back toward the building. "Are you willing to put some trust in the system?"
"Depends on what that looks like."
"I worked with Brian when I was at Seattle PD. Good cop. Reasonable. Fair." Jag ran a hand through his hair. "Between Brian, Amy, Baxter, and me, we might be able to get a judge to sign off on a warrant for Matias's visitor records. Find out who's been going in and out of that prison. Maybe we can find a connection to you or the station.”
"They'd have to know my name to make that case," Noah said. “More specifically, they’d have to know I was an Angel Salazar.”
"Yes," Jag said. "They would."
Noah looked at the sidewalk. At the people moving past him with somewhere to be on a Friday afternoon, completely indifferent to the fact that everything he'd spent twenty-five years building was currently balanced on a very thin edge. He thought about what it had cost him to build it. What it had cost Ziggy to help him protect it. What it would cost both of them if it came apart now.
"If I lost my career," he said, "I wouldn't die. But if I lost Ziggy again, I'd have nothing."
"Then let's go back inside.” Jag rested a strong hand on his shoulder. “Because if my sister lost you, I’d have to listen to her cry, and then I’d have to punch you, and that, I don’t want to have to do.”
Noah couldn’t help it. He laughed. And it felt damn fucking good.
12
Ziggy paused in the doorway of Noah’s bedroom, mug in hand, and stared at Noah. The morning sun filtered through the open shade, cascading light across his body. When the sun came out, mornings on Whidbey Island could be so beautiful. Even when the sky was filled with clouds, or that watery haze that this part of the world was known for, there was nowhere else she’d rather be—especially when he was in her life.
Noah was still asleep, rolled to one side, back to her, with one arm thrown across the empty side of the bed where she'd been an hour ago. His hair was tousled more than usual, which didn’t surprised her, considering how late they’d gotten in—or rather—stumbled in.
He seemed to sleep just fine all night, although his snoring woke her up at seven.
And Noah didn’t snore often. At least, not that she knew of.
She'd watched him sleep before. A few times, five years ago, when she’d pinched herself that Noah Chase had finally taken notice. And then again, once or twice on the ferry home after a particularly brutal broadcast week. But this was different. It was as if his arm was in search of something—in search of her—buthe’d given up and simply left it where the warmth of her body had been.
That’s what she wanted it to be. And maybe it was. Or maybe he had just rolled to his side like most normal people did.