Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 85876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
“Have you called Axel back?” he asks.
I watch him holster his weapon. “Not yet.” I glance around to make sure no one is close enough to overhear. “You?”
“No.” His jaw twitches.
“I’ll call him and let you know what he says.” He nods, then turns and walks off.
I drag in a breath. Miles and I work for the FBI and a little under a year ago, we were given the assignment to infiltrate the police department here after the FBI received information that there was corruption within the force. So far, we’ve found nothing to back up the claims that were made, but that doesn’t mean anything. It takes time, lots of time, to find the closet with the skeletons hidden in it. That doesn’t mean the people who Miles and I report to like waiting.
When my cell phone rings, I take the call, not recognizing the number.
“Beckett,” I answer.
“You removed me from the bank account!” Naomie shouts in my ear, and I sigh as I roll my chair back and stand. I grab my keys along with the file off the top of my desk.
“I told you to speak to my lawyer if you have questions.”
“I don’t want to talk to that bitch; I want to talk to you. What the hell am I supposed to do, Tucker?”
My lawyer, Phoebe, isn’t a bitch. She’s just really fucking good at her job and gives no fucks when she’s protecting her clients.
“I’m at work, Naomie. I don’t have time for this.”
“You can’t do this. My lawyer said you can’t just cut me off. You can’t just leave me without anything. We’re still married.”
“My lawyer is turning in the paperwork to make the divorce official tomorrow. I left you in the house with the mortgage paid for the next three months; I didn’t kick you out. And you’ve still got your car that I paid for in full. Sell it, or… I don’t know… get a fucking job?” I suggest sarcastically.
“Don’t be a dick. I just got a job.” Her voice is strangled like she’s about to cry. “I won’t get paid for another two weeks.”
“Then I guess you’ll have some money in two weeks, unless you sell your car before then.”
“I hate you. I didn’t think it was possible to hate you, but I—”
I hang up before she can finish and shove my cell in my back pocket, then grab my gun from the locked drawer of my desk and holster it.
As I’m heading out of the building, I catch sight of Bowie walking in with his duffle bag slung over his shoulder. His eyes catch mine for a brief second, then he looks away.
A month ago, two days after receiving a call from Miranda’s friend letting me know that Miranda had left him, I handed over the divorce papers along with the information and photos the private detective collected to Naomie. When she realized what she was looking at, she instantly began to cry and apologize, making excuses for what she had done. That lasted for less than five minutes, when she found her fake tears weren’t working, she got pissed and started trying to justify everything she did, by letting me know all the ways I fucked up.
Nothing she said caused me any pain, even when that was her intention. The only emotion I had while looking at her was regret. I wasted so much fucking time, hoping that shit would work, when deep down I always knew it was never going to.
The next day, I moved out, and as far as I know, she’s still been seeing Bowie. If I were a better man, I’d warn him, but he can learn that fucking lesson all on his own.
When I get to my truck, I check the time, then type in the address for Kristen’s best friend Carrie, then pull out of the parking lot. With Kristen now buried next to her grandmother, and her family over the initial shock of her murder, they have been calling Miles or me daily, asking for updates and giving us more leads to go on. So far, nothing has panned out, but her mom has been insistent for the last few days that Carrie knows something.
When I arrive at the house Carrie lives in with her father, I knock on the door, then scan the neighborhood as I wait. It’s not one of the nicest areas in Nashville, but with people selling their homes for cash to the developers with enough money to tear them down and replace them with something bigger and better. Then flipping them for an even higher profit, I give it two years before this whole area is unrecognizable.
“They moved.”
I turn to my left and see a woman standing on the stoop next door, smoking a cigarette.
“When?” I make my way down the sidewalk and stop outside the swinging metal gate to her yard that is falling off its hinges.