Page 34 of Stolen By the Hit Man
Jasmyn looks from Grady to me, then back to Grady.
“Well, you’ve got it wrong again, I’m afraid,” Jasmyn says. “I’m the one who pulled the trigger.”
“No,” Joaquin says. “It was me.”
Since when did we agree to that story? Is he trying to cover up for me? “That’s not what happened.”
Both men listen as I tell them exactly how the shooting played out.
The muscle memory had come back to me as if it had never left.
A couch surfer since running away at the age of 16, I had to develop survival skills. I got a gun as soon as I was old enough to legally own one. I took safety classes and everything. All thatpreparation for the unexpected, but I never could have prepared for complete memory loss.
Temporary memory loss, that is.
When I was face to face with my kidnapper, and my memories had all come back, a familiar calm settled into my bones. I knew I was about to set things right, and I did what I had to do.
“I pulled the trigger. Both times. I killed Braydon and Charlie, and I don’t feel bad about it. And we can get all the lawyers we want, but it’s time to tell the truth before things get totally out of hand. We have to go to town and tell the sheriff exactly what happened.”
Both men eye me cautiously, as if I might pull a gun on them if they say another word.
They don’t know that after today, I’m never touching a weapon again as long as I live.
"In the morning. First, you need to sleep. It's been a long, rough day for you."
I smile up at Joaquin. He didn't have to put me first. Didn't he tell me earlier that he hadn't slept in 24 hours? He must be utterly exhausted.
Grady takes in what I've said. "That changes things. It's essential that you let me help you."
The older man turns his gaze to his son. The two men engage in a silent conversation, and it's fascinating to watch.
"Fine," Joaquin says. "But first, we sleep. I'll make up one of the other guest rooms."
Chapter Seventeen
Joaquin
Grady was right about one thing. The next morning, the tiny downtown of Darling Creek is a mob scene.
As we finally find a spot to park two blocks from the sheriff’s office, we walk by people holding protest signs saying “C.O.C.K. Needs to Go,” and “Cut Off the C.O.C.K.”
It’s all I can do not to laugh as we snake through the crowd, my arm tight around Jasmyn and Grady bringing up the rear.
The shooting has evidently stirred things up, and it’s the last straw for a lot of people.
Eventually, little by little, we make our way past the crush of people and into the building. A familiar, serious face greets us. Grady’s attorney, Brian Casey, is there in his three-piece suit and briefcase.
“You don’t need to be involved in this,” I say.
He holds up his hand. “You don’t say another word.” He turns to Jasmyn and gives her a thousand-watt smile. “You must be Jasmyn.”
“Now, wait a minute. I have a lawyer. We’ve got this handled,” I protest.
“How nice for you,” Brian says, irritated. “You should definitely call them for your own reassurance. But Jasmyn is my client.”
Grady rests a hand on my shoulder as we make our way toward the bench outside the sheriff’s main interior office. “As far as we’re all concerned, you weren’t even there. Got it?”
Brian Casey adds, “In fact, I would recommend you disappear while we’re giving our statement to the sheriff.”
