Page 59 of Finding Home with You

I run a hand through my hair, wondering exactly how that conversation would go down, knowing I’d have to explain to her how I’d told the captain about that conversation of ours on the way up to my parents. The conversation that was supposed to have been just a conversation between us as a couple, not a police interview.

“I could try asking,” I say, shrugging.

The captain nods. “Do that,” he says. “Alright, anything else?”

I shuffle the folder in my hands, knowing in the interests of full disclosure, I have to show him the photos I received too. I’m pretty sure he’s not going to take this new piece of info very well and I really fucking hope this isn’t the final straw that gets me taken off this case.

“Ryan?”

“Fuck,” I breathe out as I pull the photo and the note out and slide them across the table.

I watch as the captain flicks through them, turning both of them over to examine them in detail. “Anything else?” he asks, not looking up.

I nod, even though he isn’t looking at me. “Yeah, my tires were slashed,” I explain. “Here at the precinct.”

“Okay,” he says, tapping the photo and the note against the table before handing them back to me. “Let’s review our security footage and see if we can’t find out who did that. In the meantime, get your ass down to Cedar Junction and lean on that shithead, Fitzgerald. I want him to start talking.”

“I’m not off the case?” I ask, stunned.

“No,” he replies. “Not yet. But this is serious, Ryan,” he continues. “I want you to be vigilant about your security at all times.” I nod quickly, standing as though to leave before he has a chance to change his mind about all this.

“And find this fucking Macklin character,” he adds as I walk out of the room.

Two hours later and I’m pulling into the parking lot of Cedar Junction prison, still in shock about the captain’s reaction to the photo these shitheads left for me. I’d fully expected to be removed from the case, the massive conflict of interest I have being with Erin now only compounded by the picture, the notes and their implicated threat.

But fuck it, I’ll take it, whatever his reasons are for letting me stay involved.

As I’m getting out of the car, I quickly check my phone, knowing I’ll have to surrender it soon. Opening up the security app that’s linked to Erin’s system, I see the delivery service dropping my car off, the unanswered door when they try to leave the keys. A part of me wonders where the hell Erin is as there’s nothing before that to show her leaving her place.

Just as I’m contemplating calling her, the second video loads, this time showing her leaving the house. I smile as she stops in her tracks, surprised that my car has been delivered sooner than expected. I can practically see the eye roll when she discovers the note telling her the keys are at the station with Finn.

It’s still strange to me knowing she’s so lax about security given the family she has. As if living with a new identity in some small seaside town is somehow going to protect her.

Erin disappears from view, stomping off down the sidewalk toward town just as I reach the prison entrance, so I slide my phone into my pocket and head inside.

After I’ve passed through the usual security checks, I’m shown into a room with a two-way mirror, a table and four chairs. The table has steel loops on it, the kind they often cuff the prisoners to, to stop them from doing something stupid.

Last time I’d been here, Fitzgerald hadn’t been given the honor. A part of me hopes he isn’t this time either, so that when I rile him up enough that he tries to go at me, I have an excuse to punch him in the jaw and hand him his ass.

“We’re waiting on the lawyer,” a guard says, popping his head in the room.

“What?” I ask, confused. This didn’t happen last time.

The guard shrugs as though he has no idea. “Should be about twenty minutes,” he adds before closing me in the room alone.

“Fucking hell,” I murmur, standing up as I start to pace the room. What the hell is he playing at, bringing his lawyer in. Either he’s been told not to speak to anyone without them present or he’s deliberately being a prick by making me wait. Despite the fact I know him having his lawyer here is about the smartest thing he could do, another part of me can’t help but wonder if he isn’t also choosing to mess with me a little.

Payback for what happened in the warehouse.

Payback for being with Erin, maybe.

“Detective,” a slimy voice says.

I turn and have to stifle a laugh as the walking cliché enters the room, his overpowering cologne wafting in behind him. He’s dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, his wingtip shoes polished, but everything about his accent and his demeanor screams Southie. No amount of money can change the fact that he’s just as dirty and crooked as his client.

“Lawyer,” I counter, walking over to the table.

He rests his brief case on the table, making a show of opening it and fiddling with some documents inside. “I’ll remind you again,” he says, eyes sliding to mine. “That my client is not to be spoken to, interviewed or in any way questioned without me being present.”

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