Page 76 of Broken Boss

Chris

First thing Monday, before I’ve even powered up the computer, my office phone rings. The detective’s name comes up in all caps.

“Hey, Jacobson. What can I do for you?”

I’m hoping it’s news that McCarty has finally decided to plead guilty to the crime, instead of dragging this trial out and traumatizing Marie Waters anymore.

Jacobson sighs. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up. There was an incident last night, and I passed your name on—so you might be getting a call.”

“An incident? Anything you can tell me before that call comes in?”

“An assault. It was down at The Parlour, not sure if you’re familiar?”

“I’m not; is it some kind of club, or…”

“A bar. A dive bar with a fancy name. Not in a great part of town, but it’s on the outskirts of the university, so popular with college kids. A girl named Alex Gilmore is pretty beat up. She was left out back behind the building.”

“If you’re calling me, I’m assuming there are suspects?”

“Not quite. It’s jumping the gun on that, but my team is reviewing the footage today. Right now, it’s looking pretty serious. Someone tried to slit her throat. Alex put up a fight and we found a knife nearby. The perp had to be aiming to kill her, and he came pretty close. She won’t be able to talk for a while.”

A black hole opens up in my chest.

A bar…a knife…a woman left out back.

It’s too coincidental. Or is it? This is New York City, after all, and it’s not as if bar fights and assaults aren’t semiregular here.

“Okay. I appreciate the heads-up. Can you send the footage over? I’d like to get an idea of what I’m working with.”

“’Course. Give me a few and it’ll be in your inbox.”

“Thanks. I’ll have a team ready in case you guys find someone in the next few days.”

I hang up and sit in silence for a few moments, letting the possibilities sink in. It takes everything in me not to call Autumn into the office immediately.

After all, they don’t even have any suspects yet.

Trying to do anything but wait, I start digging through my current work for a distraction. But it doesn’t come; my mind keeps drawing a line from this crime to the night Autumn told me about.

A girl behind a bar, her brother’s knife in her ribs. The slit throat.

That’s a very specific way to kill someone.

My cell pings and I grab it, tapping on the email notification. Jacobson forwarded an eight-minute long clip. Hunched over my phone, it’s as if the rest of the room and the crisp winter day disappear.

The bar is short and crowded, but my eyes immediately seek out a group of young women. They all look so vibrant and happy, but one stands out in particular. Her hair is cut short. It reminds me of Autumn’s and a pang of fear shoots through my heart.

After about two minutes of the girls chatting and waiting on drinks, three men approach them. It’s obvious what’s happening—the girls tighten up their group, turning backs and shoulders to the men. The footage is fuzzy and the men aren’t facing the camera.

But then one turns to look across the room.

Hollowed cheeks. The posture.

Without watching the last two minutes of the clip, I dial Autumn’s office. She picks up quickly, clearly confused.

“Yes?”

“Autumn, I’m going to need you to come up to my office. There’s something you need to see.”

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