Page 142 of What's Left of Us

“Marissa put extra Italian meat on for you,” Conklin says, dragging a chair over to the end of the desk I’m working at and sitting down with his lunch. “She didn’t do that for me.”

“She loves me more.”

He harrumphs. “Clearly.”

Grinning, I save the report and print it out. “How did the relay go?”

With a mouthful of food, Conklin says, “It was painful, dude. I think I’d rather stick my dick in hot glue than have to deal with a hysterical woman crying the entire time in my back seat.”

“There’s nobody better fit for it, buddy.”

He lowers his sandwich. “How the hell do you figure that?”

I clasp his shoulder. “You’ve got Cooper. Marissa said he spent the first week screaming his little head off when you brought him home from the hospital.”

Groaning, he stretches his legs out. “It isn’t the same when it’s your own kid, Hawk. I can handle my son crying. I can comfort him. But a woman in handcuffs sobbing about how her life is over? Not so easy to deal with. There was snot coming out of her nose.”

I cringe. “Nasty.”

“What was I supposed to say to her? ‘Hey, maybe if you hadn’t robbed two different family members while you were high on meth, then you wouldn’t be here’? I’m not a total dick.”

Snorting, I shake my head as I unwrap my lunch. “Nah. That’s my job.”

He watches me take a bite before switching subjects. “Noticed you haven’t been bringing in food like you used to.”

Conklin has never been good at subtlety. “I get caught up with projects around the house and lose track of time. Forget to pack one.”

Unfortunately for me, he won’t let me get off that easy. “Georgia used to make them for you.”

“She’s busy too.”

One of his eyebrows pops up as if to ask me how strenuous her job at the bookstore really is.

I don’t let him press me on it. Or why I’ve been spending more time at their house when I’m not a big fan of screaming babies. Then I’d have to tell him that Georgia has been going to her father’s house every week despite me telling her not to, which usually leads to a fight that ends in her going anyway.

“Is this what you said you wanted to talk to me about last night?” I ask him. “Because if it is, I think I’d also rather stick my dick into hot glue.”

His lips waver into an amused smile. “No, asshole. That’s not it.” He sets down his sandwich and wipes his hands off on a napkin he pulled out of thin air. “It’s about Georgia, though. Well, her dad.”

My shoulders stiffen.

He stands up and goes over to his drawer in the filing cabinet, unlocking it with a key from his pocket and pulling out a notepad. When he drops down in the chair again, he opens to a page and turns it toward me. “Scores Tech.”

The mystery investor. “What about it?”

“I’ve been tracking their investments,” he says, eyeing me. “It’s better not to ask me how. Anyway, they recently put in two new bank transfers to local businesses.”

I grab the notebook and scan the page of notes before my eyes find the businesses at the bottom. “What the fuck?”

Carbone Realty.

Turning Pages.

Conklin lowers his voice. “Scores Tech also hasn’t sent any recent transfers to The Del Rossi Group. It’s the first time in years that not one transaction has gone to the company.”

“So they split ways?”

“Maybe.” He lifts a shoulder. “Or maybe there was a falling out. I don’t know, Hawk. What I do know is that whoever is behind Scores Tech is moving in on the Del Rossis.”

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