Page 140 of Myla: The Hawthornes

“You asked for eyes out here for over a month,” Tommy reminded me.

“He needed time to heal up,” I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. If I would have finished the job when I had the chance, he never would’ve gotten anywhere near Myla.

“Yep.”

“Shoulda killed him.”

“Yep.”

“Fuck.”

“Yep.”

I scrubbed my hands over my face.

“No use lookin’ back,” Tommy said seriously. “If you never listen to anythin’ I say from here on out—fine. But don’t let that shit fester inside ya. It’ll ruin what you’ve got with my girl.”

It sounded as if he knew from experience.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Tommy watched me for a minute before nodding. “She’ll straighten your ass out.”

Myla and the agents were in the house for over two hours. At one point, a woman with a fancy camera went inside and came back out a few minutes later, carrying a plastic bag.

“Shirt,” Tommy said quietly. “Titus left it in the sink.”

When Myla finally led the agents outside, Tommy and I stood.

“We’ll be in touch,” Robinson was saying to Myla.

“Okay.”

“Go get checked out,” Gibson added.

The men turned toward us, and Tommy lifted something from the seat beside him, setting it on the table.

“It’ll have my son Otto’s prints on the barrel,” he said, nodding to the rag wrapped pistol. “He got here first and took it from Myla.”

“And this is registered to you?” Robinson asked Myla, pulling a glove on his hand.

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He picked up the pistol. “We’ll be in touch.”

“How long are they gonna be here?” I asked, jerking my chin toward the carport.

“Not sure. Through the night at least,” Gibson replied.

“I can take her home?”

“Ms. Hawthorne is free to go.”

Gibson and Robinson left the porch, heading toward the body.

“Good?” Tommy asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

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