Page 21 of Torched Spades
Bullets and blades.
Carol Reese’s murder wasn’t the result of a botched robbery so much as a direct attack on the Providence PD.
* * *
“The answer to your question about how to change who you are? You have to remove the anchors holding you to the person you were.”
It seems Becca’s parting advice turned out to be more prophetic than profound.Anchors away…Tilting my chin up, I drag the blade up my neck and over my jaw,
Change who I am.
Change where I am.
Change what I am.
It’s all semantics at this point.
Rinsing the razor, I repeat the motion, tracing line after line and swipe after swipe until I barely recognize my own reflection. Grabbing a hand towel off the counter, I brush it across my face, then glare at the man in the mirror.
Not a fan.
But when a patchwork version of the Irish mob knows your name, facial hair is a small sacrifice to avoid being a walking bull’s eye.
At least for a few days.
Leaving the bathroom, I make my way through my bedroom, and into the living room. It’s already eight a.m. and in the three hours since returning home, all I’ve managed is to shower, shave, and change clothes. Sleep is a commodity I can’t afford right now. I’ll sleep when I’m dead…
Which, according to the way things are going, shouldn’t be too much longer.
If the whole situation wasn’t so fucked up, it’d be comical. I get mixed up with the Chief of Police’s daughter, then land in the middle of a resurrected extortion ring, only to realize they’re on the same collision course.
Stopping to grab a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black and a mostly clean glass, I collapse onto the couch, staring in front of me where my laptop sits closed on the coffee table. Tempting, but now that I know some bent spoke of the Rogue is involved, I don’t need to risk another dark web dive to piece this puzzle together.
A criminal’s signature is his entire identity. It’s the one part of himself he can never let go. The part that will cross state lines, weaving old patterns in new places. The part that will write his name in blood, time after time.
I should know.
That’s why I should have seen the signs the moment I read about Carol Reese murder. Someone has been raining bullets and blades on Providence long before I tossed down a single spade.
Filling the glass to the rim, I set the bottle aside and drink until my lungs beg for air. Relenting, I suck in a breath, dropping my chin to my chest as I exhale a wave of eighty-proof frustration.
The pattern is all too familiar. The only way to control a city is to control the men with power over it. Some are lured away by their own greed. Others require a more physical approach. Then there are the few who hold tight to their honor, valiantly fighting a losing battle on principle.
Until the battle hits home…
Whether Becca knows her father is ass deep in mob dealings or not is still unclear. However, I suspect she does, and that paternal stain on her precious moral fiber is what most likely prompted the sudden name change.
The only piece that doesn’t fit is the timeline.
Carol Reese was murdered when Becca was twelve, but she didn’t cut ties with her father until her first year of college. Once that snaps into place, then I’ll have a clearer picture.
“Of all fucking places…” Setting the glass on the coffee table, I scrub my palm across my face, hating the feel of my bare skin. My scowl deepens as I slide my hand from my cheek to my pocket and draw out my phone.
Call Owen.
Two simple words. However, simple doesn’t always mean smart, so despite multiple, silent repetitions, my fingers don’t move, and the screen remains dark. Calling Owen would only end in an immediate escort out of Providence…
And away from Becca.
