Page 10 of What's Left of Us

I hold up a hand before the three of them continue, because I get the feeling this could go on for a while. It reminds me why I didn’t want to deal with an attorney the first timearound. “There is something I could tell you that you may not figure out.”

“Constantine-” McKinney warns.

I wave him off, ignoring the damn ache in my wrists from the cuffs. “No, no. This part can’t incriminate me.”

“You’re sure of that?” Sterling asks, and I glance his way again. His eyes are unreadable once more, and I hate these walls between us. If it were just the two of us, and the legal system wasn’t playing a huge part in my future, I might tell him everything, no strings attached.

Hell, if they gave me another cabin and a weekend with them I’d be willing to spill my guts, figuratively and literally if it came to it.

“If my client gives you something of interest, we’re going to expect something in return for cooperating,” McKinney says, standing as he holds up a hand. “Let me consult with my client for a moment, and we can work out the details.”

Jensen shrugs. “He’s so willing… he could tell us now.”

“That’s why Mr. Constantine hired an attorney,” he agrees. “Information isn’t free, Agent Jensen.”

They exchange a glance before Sterling backs up, grabbing the door. “We’ll wait and see what you have, and we can discuss what that might mean, counsel.”

McKinney nods as they leave, before turning to me. I glare back at him. “I know you folded last time and wrote a very clear, very binding statement about your participation in the murders but we’re going to play it smart this time. What do you plan on telling them?”

I raise a brow as I stare at him. “Well I can’t tell them anything about Porscha’s fucked up head. I don’t even understand it. And I haven't killed anyone since I was abducted from prison.”

“Good,” he says, stroking his jaw. “You’re fighting back this time. Good.”

I don’t bother to respond, because that isn’t the point. “I’m going to tell them about where Porscha kept me. There was a lot of shit there. Maybe they can find something about her.”

McKinney frowns, seeming to think as he glares at the wall. “We’re not giving up information for free this time, Alastair. You’re not a kid anymore, and I won’t let them treat you like one. You will get more time and possibly a harsher sentencing added on if they can pin more on you. There’s already talk of moving you to another prison.”

That startles me. As bad as it is, Citrus Grove Penitentiary feels like home. “What?”

“They could move you to Florida State or another maximum security prison further down the coast. Your place at CGP is in jeopardy. Let’s not do anything to stir the pot.”

Swallowing, I let that settle in. I hate prison, but the cell reserved for me at CGP is my home. I don’t want to move somewhere new where I’ll be greeted with the same amount of hate. I take a breath before meeting my attorney's gaze again. “Okay. Tell me what I should do.”

McKinney lays down what he thinks we should and shouldn’t bring up yet, but my mind is wandering. I’ve heard so many things through the grapevine, whispered and talked about, and my days before I go back behind the prison bars are dwindling down to nothing. “Hey, McKinney? I’ve heard there’s a book written about me.”

Chapter 3

“We’re really taking his word for this?” Jensen asks me, sitting in the passenger seat as we follow the route that Finley found. “You think there’s anything there?”

“I think we’re stupid if we don’t at least check it,” I tell him, turning when he points. We’ve turned off the highway and we’re into the backwoods. There’s been a couple random homes along the drive, all looking in different variations of run down, and this is a decent way from Vinny’s cabin.

Vinny. Jo. Alastair.Those three haunt my dreams, but there’s no one to talk to about this. I should talk to the married couple, but for the most part I’ve been so busy the last six days I’ve barely had time to sleep. Never mind anything else.

“Spend the night.”

“This is it,” Jensen says, adjusting in the seat to grab his gun. There’s three undercovers and a SWAT team behind us because despite Alastair’s admission, he couldn’t tell me if there was anyone else in the house.

“I didn't see anyone, but I could hear things,” he explains. “In the crawl space downstairs I could hear her steps. Only one set of feet from what I could tell. But it looked likesomeone else lived there once. Someone my size anyway. There was mail addressed to James Nunes.”

I’ve set Finley on that to do some digging. She should have something soon.

As we pull in, the cars surrounding us, my phone goes off. Jensen pauses as Soto’s name flashes across my screen, and I hit the speaker button instead of opening the door. “Soto.”

“James Nunes disappeared in early 1991,” she says, cutting right to the chase. “Born February 27, 1968, he worked as a construction worker for the county and resided in Tallahassee until he was twenty. Then he moved to this address and that’s the last we see of him. He married in 1988 and it looks like the couple constantly had martial troubles. In 1990 Nunes lost his job and there’s no record of his employment after that. This is his last known address.”

“He had a wife?” I ask. “Where is she?”

“Diana Nunes,” Soto says through the phone. “She was a teacher down in Tallahassee and commuted to work. She quit over the summer between school years and never returned. She seems to have vanished as well.”

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