Page 60 of Finding Home with You

I roll my eyes, pulling out the chair and sitting down. I kick my legs out in front of me, crossing them at the ankles as I rest my hands on my stomach in a total display of I couldn’t give a fuck what you think.

“What your client does or does not choose to do is up to him,” I say, offering a smarmy smile. “If he wants to talk, then I’m happy to let him. Perhaps the fault is in your poor instruction to your client?”

The lawyer scrapes back his chair, the metal legs screeching on the cement floor as he shoots me a look that screams bloody murder. I watch impassively as he slams his brief case shut and moves it to the floor, both of us sitting in silence now.

Eventually the door behind him re-opens and Fitzgerald is ushered in, dressed in the same standard prison uniform he was wearing last time I saw him. His hands are cuffed, but they’re released as he’s shown to his chair, the asshole even sharing a joke with the guard as he slips the metal cuffs from his wrists.

I flick my eyes to guard’s badge, make a mental note of his name so I can rip him a new one when I’m done in here, before turning back to Fitzgerald.

Now that I know about the connection, it’s impossible not to see the likeness between him and Erin. Although his hair is now dark, undeniably dyed since last time I saw him, despite his months in prison, the facial similarities are unbelievable.

“Detective Summers,” he says, pulling his chair in as he folds his hands in front of him on the table, absently playing with the steel loop as though to remind me he isn’t chained to it like most prisoners are. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I sit up now, pulling my chair in closer as I stare back at the man I literally want to murder with my bare hands. “Where is Anthony Macklin?” I ask.

Fitzgerald starts laughing as his lawyer says, “My client knows nothing about this man nor his whereabouts.”

“Oh, cut the shit,” I half shout, my eyes still on Fitzgerald. “I know he runs your crew, Fitzgerald. That he’s the one keeping shit afloat while you’re stuck in here.”

“Detective,” Fitzgerald says, practically purring. “You seem tense, is everything alright?”

“Do you even understand what’s happening here?” I ask, ignoring his comment. “You’re going down, Fitzgerald. The case is watertight, the list of charges and evidence to back them as long as my dick. There’s no getting out of this. Not unless you have something you can give us in return.”

Fitzgerald chuckles, rolling his eyes as though this is all just a game to him. “Me, turn?” he says in mock surprise. “Please, give me a little more credit.”

“Where is he?” I repeat, my words hard as I lean closer.

Fitzgerald shrugs. “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

Pissed, I stand, yanking the photo from my pocket as I slam in down on the table in front of him. I watch as Fitzgerald stares at the image, his eyes flicking between himself, Erin and Anthony. His face is impassive, the master manipulator refusing to show any emotion as he registers what I’ve just shown him.

“What is this?” the lawyer asks, indignantly. “Where did you find this?”

Now it’s me smiling, flicking my eyes quickly to the slimy lawyer before returning them to Fitzgerald. He’s still staring at the picture, seemingly unable to take his eyes off of Erin.

“It was dropped in the warehouse,” I say, drawing my words out because I know this will only piss him off even more. “The night we took down the gun exchange Anthony was running. Guess he’s getting sloppy, huh?” I add, pulling the picture away and slipping it into my pocket.

Fitzgerald’s eyes follow the movement; his face now a mask of barely restrained anger as he finally meets my stare. I offer him a smile, sliding my hands into my pockets as I continue to stand above him.

“And it looks like his sloppiness has just pinned you to the whole fucking thing now, doesn’t it?”

By the time I walk out of the prison, my mood has lifted considerably. While Fitzgerald might not have told me where I can find Macklin, I know he’s rattled. Enough that his lawyer shut down any further conversation so that he could confer with his client about exactly what he did and didn’t know.

What I did know was that both of them were pissed. Pissed that there was now irrefutable evidence that tied Macklin to Fitzgerald and therefore Fitzgerald to what happened back in the warehouse that night.

I also knew that Fitzgerald was aware that Erin and I were together and that he was scared shitless about what that might mean.

I’m not sure how long their little convo about all of these new developments was going to take, but I was willing to stick around for a little longer on the off chance that Fitzgerald decided to stop being a fucking asshole and start talking.

Knowing Anthony fucked up like this, that he didn’t just ID himself as the guy running the whole gun thing, but that he’d also tied it to Fitzgerald, was bound to piss the guy off. Retaliation in some form was all but guaranteed to happen, because loyalty was respected above all else when it came to the mob.

It was always something that struck me as slightly messed up. That these mob guys demanded loyalty and respect but were more than willing to fuck their wives over at every opportunity. A part of me wondered if that’s what Macklin had done to Erin all those years ago and that her unwillingness to stay silent or complicit in his disrespect toward her hadn’t also contributed to her wanting to leave.

“Fuck,” I murmur, knowing I’m really going to struggle not to strangle this motherfucker when I finally find him.

I pull out my phone to check the time, wondering how much longer it’s going to be before Fitzgerald decides to talk. When the screen lights up though, it’s with another notification of movement at Erin’s door. Opening the app again, I watch as she returns in Finn’s car, the two of them chatting briefly before she heads inside.

A second notification shows her leaving again, the keys to my car in her hands now, as though she’s about to drive somewhere.

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