Page 63 of Brother's Keeper

“You’refucked?” he retorted. “It’smyname on the damn thing.”

The warmth drained from my face. “You didn’t really… I was joking, Donnie! Why are you signing your name on anything? You’re supposed to be dead!”

“I didn’t think about it!”

“Jesus Christ.” Pulling the phone away from my cheek, I pinned it to my chest instead. I slumped against the brick wall, tilting my head back to stare at the sky. On the other side of that same wall, Holland was no doubt in mid-interrogation, questioning the owner of this place who, unlike Isha, had no loyalty to me or secrets to protect.

Donovan’s voice buzzed through the cell’s speaker loudly enough I could tell he was shouting my name.

Before he could call out again, I put the phone to my ear and snapped, “What am I supposed to do about this?”

“Why are you asking me?” Donovan retorted.

I huffed a hot breath.

After another long pause, my brother’s sigh whooshed across the line. “When are you coming home?”

“That’s my next stop.” I rolled my head toward the front corner of the building. “Unless they throw me in jail first. I gotta go.”

Pressing the End Call icon, I pocketed the cell and took a final, lung-swelling drag off the cigarette. Without knowing how far Holland had gotten into her conversation with the owner, I could be walking into anything from how’s the weather pleasantries to an antimagic shock collar and a pair of handcuffs with my name on them.

I needed a plan. A convincing lie, at least.

Holland was aware that Donovan was alive due to our clash during the Thorngate prison escape. Last I knew, the investigator was on board to help get my brother out of town. But that would change when she found out he was an accomplice in a string of kidnappings-turned-murders.

Finding Yankee Doodle’s BMW was the start of a steep decline. One storage unit would lead to eight others, some of which might contain the evidence of captives held here for weeks on end. Not to mention signs of Donovan’s comings and goings. And mine.

I stood outside until I feared my absence would become suspicious, certainly longer than it took me to power through a single cigarette. I considered lighting another. Let Holland come looking and find me burning through the whole pack, living it up while I could. Smokes were hard to come by in prison.

Smoothing my suit coat and tugging on my tie, I walked to the windowed front of the office building. I drew a steeling breath before pushing through the door. Inside, a cardboard cutout of Elvis greeted me. I dodged the King and scanned the crowded space.

Every wall and the front of the service counter was papered with posters of rock music legends. The Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, the Rolling Stones, and more Elvis. Foil music notes hung from the ceiling, and a jukebox in the corner proved commitment to the theme. All of that paled in comparison to the owner’s wardrobe of a white button-down and pink poodle skirt.

In the weeks since I’d last been here, she hadn’t changed. Still gray-haired, hunchbacked, and smelling like sweat from the stuffy heat in the building. I hadn’t changed, either, and was banking on the Clark Kent effect of my suit to turn me into someone unrecognizable.

She and Holland stood on opposite sides of the service counter. The investigator jotted notes in her trusty memo pad while the owner prattled on. Hoping to avoid notice, I made a sharp turn toward the dusty jukebox.

“Can I help you, young man?” The owner’s voice crackled from the grit of a lifelong cigarette habit.

“He’s with me,” Holland interjected, clearly determined to keep me from ruining what could have been a productive witness testimony. “About the councilman’s car,” she continued after the scarcest pause, “you said a young man paid for the unit?”

Across the property, Tobin and Vesper had alreadygone to the unit in question, intent on scrubbing the BMW for clues. Felix remained behind at the Capitol, reviewing traffic camera footage and finding everything his lucky little heart desired. And here I was, trapped and waiting for the gavel of condemnation to fall.

“Yeah,” the owner replied. “Sweet thing. Came through about twice a day for a few weeks. Bringing boxes.”

Pizza boxes.I shuddered.

“I figured he was loading one of those units in the far back. They got rented out a few days before he started coming. Eight in a row.”

“Eight of them, you say?” Holland’s pen scribbled furiously while I clicked through The Doors discography. “And the BMW was in the ninth?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Were they all under the same name?”

Here it comes.I braced myself against the jukebox, breathlessly waiting.

“Let me get my book,” the owner rasped.

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