Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 136791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
"The receipt was located in Adcock's backyard," he tells me.
Fuck. I don't even remember having the damn thing on me that night.
"Whitten was shit as a detective," Hernandez says softly. "He never even attempted to find out who made the donation. No one around the program now remembers who came in to donate back then, but they keep pretty detailed records. Whoever made this donation did so anonymously, in memory of Titan James. Seems strange to me that the Diablos who killed him would make a donation to gang prevention in his honor."
I stare at him, keeping my expression impassive.
"I'm guessing you're the one who made that donation."
"Never denied it, but feel free to check my bank statements. I'm sure you'll find them enlightening."
"Care to explain how the receipt ended up in Adcock's backyard?"
"Not a clue," I say, still only half lying. Maybe I had it on me and dropped it. "Maybe Kaleo planted the shit. Maybe Disney birds picked it up and carried it there. Who the fuck knows?"
"Hire a lawyer, Kincaid," Hernandez suggests, keeping his voice soft. He actually sounds like he feels sorry for me, sorry that he has to do this. Swear to God, I'm surrounded by good guys. "You're a good cop. I don't have anything against you, but I'm not Whitten. I can't just let this go and look the other way. If I find out you were the one who killed them, you'll be charged with three counts of capital murder."
"I'll do that," I lie. I'm not hiring a lawyer. I'm not going on the defensive. If they nail my ass to the wall for this, so be it. I knew it was a risk back then, and I accepted it. That hasn't changed. But if I go down for this, I'm not going down alone. I'll drag Kaleo with me, kicking and screaming the whole goddamn way.
"You good?" Roman asks me two hours later, eyeing me from the driver's side of his truck as he drives me back toward Ma Lucia's. A thousand questions roll through his eyes and then parade across his face, but he doesn't ask them.
"I'm straight." My leg bounces up and down, giving away my lie. Truth is, I'm real fucking worried Hernandez is going to take me down for this. It's what I deserve, but I'm not exactly sure how I'm supposed to take care of my girl from inside a prison cell.
I made a promise to her, and I plan to keep it.
"I need a favor."
"Talk to me," he says instantly.
"If I go down for this shit, I need you to make sure January is taken care of," I mutter, looking everywhere but at him. I'm not good at asking for favors. It's not something I do often.
"I'll make sure she's looked after," he promises.
"I'm a millionaire."
He snorts and shakes his head, an amused smile twitching at his lips. "You think I didn't already know that?"
"You never brought it up."
"Not my business what you do with your own goddamn money." He shoots me a look that tells me he's not lying. He genuinely doesn't give a shit if I'm the poor son of a bitch everyone thinks I am or not. Makes me wonder who else in our circle knows about the money and just doesn't care.
Growing up, I was naïve. I assumed if people knew, it'd change things or make me like the grandparents I never knew. Now, I see things a little differently. Tristan has a trust fund of his own but never let it change him. Hell, if anything, he works harder than anyone else. It's not money that changes people. It's greed. And that's one thing I've never felt about anything except January.
"She's stubborn as hell and will fight you on it the whole goddamn way, but if I go down for this, the money is hers. All the paperwork is in order. Make sure she gets it."
"You aren't going down for this," Roman practically growls at me, pegging me with a hard glare. "Not fucking happening, Kincaid. You aren't a killer."
"You clearly haven't seen my personnel file," I snort, ignoring my phone as it buzzes in my pocket. It's been blowing up all day, but I haven't answered. It's Ames, and I don't know what I'm going to say to him when he asks me if I did this shit.
"Fuck that," Roman snaps. "You think you're the only one who's killed someone in the line of duty? My file is about as long and storied as yours. You and I aren't normal cops dealing with normal fucking criminals. We deal with the worst of the worst—the people who poison everything around them and feel nothing. The way I see it, you did what you had to do to get home at the end of the day."