Page 70 of Sighs By the Sea

Her head snaps my way. “Could we? I mean, you run the books,” she says. I shrug. I don’t want to seem ungrateful; they do pay me fairly. We both drift into silence until she suddenly stands up. “I’m gonna shower, and then I’m taking you shopping.”

My head reels at the news. “What? Why?”

“Because you need a distraction, Gray, and I’m sick of seeing the same four outfits on you. We can buy stuff for Georgie too.”

I know when it’s pointless to argue with Miranda. “Fine.” She claps her hands together, clearly enjoying the prospect. The woman does love her shopping.

“Great. And that way, if Roger calls, you can run interference.” She pats my shoulder and heads down her hallway.

When she’s gone, I go to her couch to watch TV while I wait. As I reach for the remote, I notice a stack of mail haphazardly arranged on the coffee table. Frowning, I start straightening the pile. It’s about the only thing in her home that isn’t perfectly organized. That bothers me far more than if the entire apartment were in disarray.

As I’m tidying up, a few pieces of mail fall to the floor. Stooping down, I pick them up. When I see what they are, my hand nearly drops them again.

Photos—strange ones. The view is far away, grainy from how zoomed in they are, but the same woman is in each picture.

When I flip to the last photo, my hand starts shaking.

I’m looking at my wife.

Maggie

I’m getting sick of prisons. Maybe it’s ironic, given my job as a detective, but the whole process—getting checked in, walking down those narrow cement walkways, hearing the yells and loud noises—it’s all a sensory overload. The clanging of metal doors echoes in my ears, and the cold, sterile air sends a shiver down my spine. As I enter the waiting room, I spot Tilly. Her posture is stiff, her eyes fixed on some point across the room. She doesn’t offer much of a greeting, and I can’t blame her. This place, this situation—it represents everything she’s tried to escape.

“Matilda,” I say with a small nod as I sit next to her, unsure if I should even use her nickname.

“Tilly,” she corrects, her voice steady but strained. I knew that’s what everyone calls her, but I wasn’t sure if I had the right.

“You, uh, ready for this?” I ask, my own nerves making my voice sound too soft, too unsure. She closes her eyes slowly, letting out a shaky breath. For a moment, I see the vulnerability she tries so hard to hide, but then her chin rises with that familiar determination. The fragile woman is gone, replaced by the badass who built a life from the ashes of her family’s past.

I might have a bit of a girl crush.

She flicks some hair over her shoulder and stands as the guard calls us. I follow her lead, squaring my shoulders. Being around her has that effect on me—making me want to be stronger, tougher, more resolute.

How could I have ever thought this woman was anything but a caring cousin? Or that Grayson was anything less than a loving father?

The guilt is eating me alive. I’ve been avoiding Grayson since meeting with his wife. But how the hell do I tell him? Every possible outcome feels like a disaster waiting to happen. So, like the coward I am, I’m waiting. Maybe after this little chat with Antonio, I’ll have more to admit to Grayson anyway.

Not that I expect Antonio to fess up everything the minute he sees Tilly, but on the off chance he does… On the very, very, very rare off chance, that is.

We’re led into an all-too-familiar interrogation room. The harsh fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a cold glare on the metal surface. The room smells of antiseptic, the sterile scent clinging to everything. Antonio Cardenas, the leader of the Cardenas family cartel, is already there, waiting. His hair is slicked back and tied low on the back of his head, his eyes sharp and calculating as they take us in.

When we approach, he rises from his chair like a king surveying his subjects.

“Matilda, I didn’t realize you were bringing company,” he says, his voice charming with a lingering disappointment.

“Yes, Papa, you remember Detective Parker,” she replies, her tone firm, almost defiant. Even though she used his family title, there’s no affection in it.

He gestures to our chairs, and both of us sit. I don’t like that he thinks he’s in command of the room, but I let it go. Being nice is more effective than being confrontational. I’m not here to play bad cop.

“Indeed. How can I help you, then? This obviously isn’t a social call,” he says, leaning back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly.

“It’s about Grayson, Papa,” Tilly says, her voice as steady as ever, but I can feel the tension radiating off her. It’s like she’s holding back a storm.

His beady eyes narrow further. “What about your cousin? What has he gone and done now?”

“He’s in trouble,” she says, her voice tight with restrained emotion.

“How?” Antonio’s gaze shifts to me, curiosity flickering in his dark eyes. He’s assessing me, trying to gauge how much I know, how much I’ll reveal.

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