Page 13 of Call Back

“I just don’t see why you’re doing this.”

“Doing what? Staying with Brady? I already explained it to you. He makes me feel safe.”

“It’s more than that, and you know it, Mags. You’re playing a dangerous game. Owen’s dirty. How can you be sure his best friend isn’t part of it? What if Owen’s warnings are just to throw you off so you’ll trust Brady?”

“It doesn’t matter if I trust Brady or not, because, for the millionth time, I’m. Not. Telling. Him. Anything.”

“You say that now . . .”

“What am I supposed to do? There’s a camera in my apartment, and I can’t go to Momma’s. I’d leave if I could, but I’m stuck.” But even as I said the words, I didn’t altogether believe them. I’d liked staying with Brady a little too much. I’d let myself pretend I could have a quiet, domestic Franklin life, even though I knew it wasn’t true.

“I know you are.” He sounded resigned. “Start the car. Let’s go.”

I convinced him to pick up a sandwich from the deli instead, and we drove to Pinkerton Park and sat on top of a picnic table while we watched several preschoolers on the playground. I told him about my conversation with Owen, then waited.

“So what do you want to do?” he asked as he licked mayonnaise from his finger.

“Keep digging.”

“Why?”

I was silent for a moment. “I don’t know.”

“You need a better reason than ‘I don’t know.’ Frasier’s right. This whole situation seems pretty damn dangerous.”

“I want the truth, Colt . . . I need it.”

“You know the truth, Mags. Lopez killed your father.”

Except I wasn’t so sure I believed that anymore—there was so much it didn’t explain. I narrowed my eyes. “Why are you doing this? What’s in it for you?”

He turned to look at me. “Honestly? I want a cut of the gold.”

“With the exception of the bar you have, the gold is gone. All of it. Even the last bag. Someone took it from my purse in the catering van on Saturday night.”

His eyes flew wide open. “They stole your purse?”

“No, they stole the gold and my father’s gun. They left my wallet.”

“Shit.” He ran his hand over his head. “Which means they knew what they were looking for. You’re sure Lopez didn’t take it?”

“No. He was looking for it when I found him in my apartment. And if he’d stolen it out of my purse after I purposely sent him there to get it, I doubt he would have come back to beat the real location out of me.”

“You told him where it was?”

“He was going to kill me. Plus, Steve Morrissey’s body had just been found and the place was crawling with cops. I was hoping they’d see him breaking into the catering vans and arrest him.”

His brow lowered and he grudgingly said, “Good thinking.”

“Thank you,” I said in a snotty tone. “Give me a little credit.”

“How about Morrissey?” he asked, losing his attitude. “Maybe he found the gold before Lopez shot him.”

“I don’t know. Maybe—although I don’t know how he’d know my purse was in the van. And if Morrissey found it, wouldn’t Lopez find it on him when he killed him? But I’m positive Lopez stole the rest of the gold from my apartment. The timing was right. He staged his disappearance around lunchtime on Friday, and the break-in happened that afternoon.”

“So we find the gold Lopez stole; then we sell it and split the profits. You just leave the rest of it alone.”

“Colt, there’s something I need to tell you about the gold.”

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