Page 59 of Edge of Control

“I feel like I’m so close,” I said. “I know Marielle is the key to all of this. I just don’t get how.”

“We need to find her brother,” Zane said. “He could be the missing link.”

“He could,” I said. “And I’m trying. Marielle’s online presence is paper-thin, and the only people who knew her don’t seem to have had much interaction with her brother.”

“What about parents?” Benji asked. He cut into the thick, bloody steak that sat on his plate.

“I think they cut her off. The landlord mentioned that she almost didn’t get the apartment but begged him, saying that her parents kicked them both out.”

“And you think she knew about this blackmail ring?” Mason asked.

I nodded. “She directly brought it up to the mayor about a week before she was found dead.”

Zane leaned back in his seat. “Suicide?”

The word dragged a chill up my spine.

I nodded, avoiding eye contact. “From what it seemslike, yeah. She hanged herself. The landlord heard her brother shouting for help. But there were no autopsy reports, which raised a red flag for me.”

Zane made an inquisitive sound. Benji swallowed his steak, his head cocked. “That is weird. And it happened here?”

“It did,” I said. I cut into the tender chicken breast, brought a forkful of it to my mouth. Flavor exploded across my tongue. At least there was good reason for this place to be so expensive. “I’m going to focus on hunting down the brother. He may know something.”

“I agree,” Zane said.

A flash of incompetence flared inside me. I still felt far out of my league on this one. Like I was making critical mistakes. With Zane here, maybe I should unload all of that? I could ask for help? Or even pass the case on? It made my stomach lurch, having to admit to my failures, but if it helped find this sick fuck sooner, then maybe it’d be for the better?

Shit was always bad for me and my self-confidence. It started off in school, where I’d have trouble focusing on any single subject. Then it leeched over to life at home, where I wouldn’t be able to successfully complete any of the chores my parents asked me to do. This would infuriate my mother, who’d berate me for hours, never helping with the inner doubts that fed off her shouting like termites eating through solid wood. My father would try and alleviate the situation, often by quietly coming into my room after all the yelling was done to explain that Mom was frustrated with work and with how sickGrandma and Grandpa were, that she was wrongly taking it out on me.

It didn’t quite help. I internalized all of those fights, all of the shouting. Every failed test, every missed homework assignment, every little mistake I made added fuel to my fire.

It started to diminish once I began working as an officer with my father. I went through the police academy just fine, I went out on patrols just fine, I worked hard to keep innocent people safe and criminals locked up. It all felt like it was beginning to work out. Like I wasn’t the failure I was telling myself I was.

Then, my father was shot. On a call I should have been on.

Maybe I could have saved him? Maybe just by being there, the man wouldn’t have felt confident enough to pull out his gun and take the shot?

I had failed in the most monumental way possible.

Was I on the same track with this case?

The next bite of chicken tasted like dust and cardboard. Like ashes. My heart started to pick up its pace. I should admit it. I was drowning in this case. People were dying, and more would die the longer I continued to be incompetent. I should have already tracked down the brother. Any other detective would have had names, addresses, social security numbers, ex-relationships, dating profiles. I could hardly even get a physical description of the guy.

Just that he was tall and had tattoos.

Great. So basically every guy walking the streets through Bushwick.

“I think, Zane, that maybe I?—”

My phone vibrated against my thigh. It could have been something about the case. I paused, pulled it out.

It was Theo. Odd. He wasn’t usually a phone call kind of guy. He normally sent texts.

“Sorry, I need to take this real quick.”

“Of course,” Zane said.

I stood and walked through the loud restaurant, stepping out onto the cold, busy sidewalk. It was eight o’clock. The street was full of people either leaving their late shifts for dinner and drinks or starting their early shifts at the nearby bars.

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