Page 24 of Finding Home with You

The captain says nothing more, perhaps realizing how close I am to losing my shit. Pete and I drive to the hospital in silence. I know I should say something to him, maybe check if he’s actually okay after everything that happened tonight, but I’m too busy turning over tonight’s events in my own head.

None of it makes any fucking sense. Well, I mean the deal getting moved was likely an attempt to lure us in, set up the ambush; but how the hell did they even know we knew about it in the first place? Joe says the informant hadn’t been made and I gotta say, from everything he told me on the ride over, I believe him.

I shake my head as we pull into the hospital emergency bay, knowing I don’t stand a chance of trying to work any of this out until I get back to the station. Pete parks in one of the emergency vehicle bays, the advantage of taking a cruiser. Inside, I’m admitted straight in for treatment, the advantage of having a badge and smile.

Less than two hours later, I’ve got fifteen stitches and am back at the station, the adrenaline of everything that’s happened finally starting to wear off. My left arm is numb and feels like a dead weight as I grab a stale cup of coffee from the pot and walk straight into the situation room.

“Shit, what are you doing back here?” Joe asks as I walk into the room.

“My job,” I throw back at him. “Get me up to speed.”

Joe ignores my pissed off attitude as he runs through where we’re at. In total, eight guys were picked up at the warehouse, another four sent to the morgue. We’ve got a shitload of guns now bagged and down in evidence and a folder of info, including a ledger of buyers and all their sordid details.

It’s better than any of us expected and it almost makes everything that happened tonight worth it, even if none of us can work out how it is that they knew we were watching them.

“Alright,” I say, swallowing a mouthful of cold, bitter coffee. “Who’s first up?” It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning now, but none of us are heading home anytime soon. We have eight guys to question and it’s likely to take the rest of the night and the better part of tomorrow.

“Boss,” Joe says, standing. “There’s one other thing.”

“What?” I ask, shooting him a glance.

“This,” he says, sliding a photo across the table toward me.

My fingers land on it just before it slides off. It’s an old color photo, grainy and worn as though it’s been looked at and tucked away a lot. In the picture is an older man and woman, a couple, although if I was to hazard a guess, not exactly on great terms. Beside them is a younger couple, the body language between these two painting a totally different story; one that screams intimacy and closeness.

“It was found on the floor,” Joe says. “Likely dropped by someone,” he continues, oblivious to what’s running through my head as I pick the photo up from the table for a closer look. “Probably means at least one guy got away, but I don’t think that’s the biggest issue here,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Ryan, you know who that is, right?”

I stare down at the picture, not saying a word as the image sears itself into my brain.

“It’s William Fitzgerald,” Joe says. “The fucking mob boss, William Fitzgerald. He must be connected to all this, he must be involved. I mean I know he’s about to go on trial, but why else…?”

But I don’t hear anything else Joe says, because as much as I know who William Fitzgerald is and what this now means for the case, that’s not what’s bothering me about this photo.

No, my issue is with the young redhead that’s standing beside him.

Chapter Ten

Erin

I wake up the next morning with Finn asleep beside me, but it’s early. I roll over and hit the center button on my phone, the light nearly blinding me in the darkness of the room. As my eyes adjust I notice it’s a quarter past five.

I told Finn he didn’t have to stay, that I’d be okay, but he insisted. I fell asleep almost immediately, which I don’t think would’ve happened had he not been here. Ever since the most recent phone call things seem off or maybe I’m just obsessing.

Last week there was a black car with dark tinted windows that sat at the end of my street. I watched it for hours; probably a boiler stolen and ditched later with its random Rhode Island license plate, but nothing ever came from it.

But even more than that, when I arrived home from work just a couple of days ago there was a man on my porch. I stopped short of pulling into my driveway, and slowly drove by, and for a split second I swore it was him.

Same build and dark blonde hair, but he stood a little taller, looked a little rougher, but on my second pass by my house he was gone. That’s the part that scared me more than anything.

Was he ever really there? Standing on my porch, looking though my window? Did my father send him or did he come on his own? Was he in my house now?

I went straight to the police station, but under the guise that I was just there to shoot the shit with Finn. I know he saw right through it.

All that paranoia led to me fearing the process server that appeared on my doorstep. It also led to me accepting the fact that Finn sleeping in my bed was a better idea than sleeping alone.

I don’t want to wake him, so I slip from the bed quietly, grabbing my laptop as I leave the room. I put on a pot of coffee because god knows I’m going to need it. I have a few hours before I need to be at work, but there’s one thing I need to do even though everything in me says not to.

I sit down at the kitchen table with the sound of the coffee pot brewing in the background; I open my laptop and type his name into the search bar.

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