Page 16 of The Verdict

My heart slammed into the front of my chest.Or was I wrong about everything?

“Rhys…” Harm narrowed his eyes on the image. “Do you know her?”

Know her?

Red creeped into the corners of my vision. I’d protected her. Killed for her. Held her. I knew the taste of her tongue.The sound of her voice. The grip of her cunt when she came.But no, I didn’t fucking know her.

“No.” My gaze narrowed on the image. “But she was there the night of the holiday party. With Wheaton.” My blood sizzled. “There’s a chance she knows about Ivans. Where we can find him.”

Now, there were two dead people tied to this woman—one of them the police didn’t even know about. The Spaniard who’d attacked her that night had a rap sheet a mile long. A guy like that was a thug for hire. He could’ve worked for any one of the criminals at Wheaton’s party that night; he could’ve even worked for Wheaton.

“Rhys—”

“I’m going to look into it.” I headed for the door before he could ask any of the questions written all over his face.

“Keep me updated?—”

“Yeah. Got it,” I managed to mumble as I passed him. “Tell Pops I’m sorry I had to go, and that I know I owe her a song.”

“Will do.” He sounded worried. He shouldn’t be. I would take care of this—take care of myself. I always did.

I stalked down the hall, grateful for concrete floors that wouldn’t tremble under the angry pounds of my steps. I grabbed my leather jacket off the hook and the keys to my bike.

First stop was the murder scene. I needed information and answers. I needed to know why the hell they thought she—Merritt—had killed Wheaton. Because the woman I’d met hadn’t seemed capable of murder. If she had, I was sure the man who’d attacked her would’ve been her first victim.

My bike grumbled as I slowed along Jackson Street and pulled up to the curb a block down from Wheaton’s address.Presidio Heights, of course.Thewealthiest corner of San Francisco with its multimillion dollar homes tucked along the park. Talk aboutLifestyles of the Rich and Famous.I looked up and down the street, watching a Bentley go by before I shut off the engine.Yeah, my Harley didn’t belong here.

“Real.”Her word snapped through my mind from that night.

I shook off the thought, pulled out my phone, and tapped on Talon’s name. A cold breeze blew through me while I waited for the man’s unmistakable deep rasp to answer.

“Rhys.”

“Hey. What do you know about the Wheaton murder?”

Talon Rhodes worked for Armorous Tactical, the large,elite private security firm owned by Hazard Foster that operated just outside San Francisco. We were all ex-military and in the business of justice, so our circles ran tight; anytime we needed external support for an operation in the city, we called them.

And so did the police.

Armorous provided tactical training to most of the city’s precincts, and in return, Foster and his team were brought into police investigations when the local LEOs needed help. They had access to files—open investigations like this one—and I needed to know what the police knew.

“Figured I’d be hearing from you,” he said, his deep voice devoid of emotion.

I’d called Talon the night of the party, needing someone capable and close to help me get rid of the body while I took care of… Merritt. I couldn’t have left her for two minutes to call him—two goddamn minutes, and when I came back, she was gone. Fucking vanished into thin air.

Because you scared the shit out of her.

You killed a man and then fucked her like a savage.

Even if I’d acted in her defense, murder was still the kind of thing that deserved an explanation, but she hadn’t stuck around long enough for me to give it.

Or long enough to learn that the dead man was Alvaro Lorenz, a career criminal in Spain wanted by Europol for assault, theft, and a whole host of other charges.

Talon had brought some gadget to identify the man, not that his identity really mattered. Maybe I should’ve felt relief knowing Lorenz was a wanted criminal, but he could’ve been the Pope and it would’ve made no difference to me; as soon as he’d touched her, he’d been a dead man.

“Yeah,” I grunted, scanning the approaching crime scene. Two days and the caution tape was already gone; the yellow and black stripes of murder weren’t a good look amid the row of mansions.

“Looks like they’ve zeroed in on a suspect—Merritt Manning,” he began, and an electric zing went through me just hearing her name.

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