Page 113 of What's Left of Us

Something like an officer surviving a shooting that was supposed to kill him. “And who exactly would he make the fall guy?”

Volley’s eyes stay on the table. “Everybody.”

“Including you?”

A noise rises from him. “Especially me.”

Yet, he’s still willing to talk. “Who gave you the orders that day, Volley? Welsh is pointing fingers at you, but I don’t buy it. I saw the video of you in court. There is somebody pulling the strings. Somebody who made it worth your while to pull that trigger. I want to know who. And I want to knowwhy.”

“You already know the why,” he replies dryly. “Why do any of us make the choices we do? People like me have very little to live for. All we want is the next fix. If we can’t pay for it, we can’t get it. Me and Welsh are disposable because of our addiction. The people who send us the cash know that. They offer us drugs, knowing we’re too weak to decline. So we make them deals. We do their dirty work for a few ounces of the good stuff. We’re a dime a dozen to them. Nobodies. If one of us drops dead, nobody would feel bad about it. Nobody would mourn us. Tell me I’m wrong.”

I can’t, so I don’t bother speaking up.

“Nah,” he murmurs, shaking his head again and laughing. It’s distant. Short. Dry. “Welsh and I signed our death warrants the second we said yes to the devil. They get us when we’re weak. When we’d do anything for a quick hit. That’s what happened to me. That’s what Welsh didn’t tell you. Because if he did, you wouldn’t be here asking for answers.”

Whoever gave him the orders kept close enough tabs on him to know when he was desperate for his drug of choice. I’ve dealt with a lot of users in withdrawal who admitted they would have killed for a drag of anything.

“Who’s the devil, Volley?”

Before he can answer, the guard opens the door and says, “Time is up.”

“Wait,” I say, knowing I’m about to get the answer I’ve been searching for years. “I just need two more minutes.”

“Those aren’t the rules,” the guard tells me unapologetically.

Volley looks at me, smiles, and stands up as the guard undoes his cuffs from the table. Before his hands get restrained, he grabs ahold of my hand and squeezes it. “Glad you were able to pull through, Detective.”

“No touching,” the guard orders, grabbing his hands and forcing them behind his back.

When I realize there’s a piece of paper in my hand, I quickly tuck it into my front pocket. “Estep can give us more time. Tell him you need more time with me. Get me on the list to come back.”

As Volley gets escorted out of the room, he calls out, “My time is up, Detective. I don’t have anything left to give.”

When another guard walks in after Volley disappears down the corridor, I follow him out until we’re at the exit. All he says is, “Next bus will be here in ten minutes to take you back to your vehicle.”

As I wait outside at the stop, I pull the piece of paper out and read what it says.

The devil works at 99th Street in Kirklin where he buries his secrets eight feetunder

I stare at the words and flip the paper over to see more ink written on the scrap paper torn from a notepad corner.

Once they know I’ve met you, I won’t be able to offer you moreinformation.

-Jakob Volley

My eyes go back to the front, where they rake over the address that I know by heart. Almost as well as where Conklin’s last breath was taken.

I pull out my phone to triple-check what I already know, making sure I’m right.

The business that pops up when I type in the address makes my heart tighten.

99th Street in Kirklin.

The Del Rossi Group.

He buries his secrets eight feet under.

I think back to Conklin’s working theory about who Nikolas Del Rossi really is. More importantly,whohe’s working with.

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