Page 60 of Cruel Debts
Not helpful.
Whatwashelpful were the notes in the back of this notepad, the ones Keehn clearly wrote in a hurry, his script ending short and in a different color than the rest of his notes. It was written in red, like he'd grabbed the first thing he could find to write with.
It was case file numbers. Ten of them. And with each one I looked up, the truth slid together, the path he'd taken, and it all started to make sense.
Whoever had been responsible for Keehn's ID and badge ending up on a vagrant dead in an alleyway was dangerous. And they were covering up something big. Something that could very well be related to what the hell we were looking into even now.
It stank of a trafficking ring's target acquisition patterns.
Which meant that Keehn, even if he hadn't known it, was searching for the same people we were. And they'd likely killed him for it.
The thought was sobering.
Why hadn't he reached out? Why had he struck out on his own? Was he afraid of letting someone know because he knew what he was doing was dangerous? Did he suspect they'd come for him when he got too close to the truth?
What had his motivation even been? Was it his bleeding heart? His inability to look past someone's sob story and worry about himself?
He'd never been good at keeping his nose on his face, even as a soldier. Always off helping some local or trying to please his superiors. Going above and beyond the call of duty. The perfect little soldier. Perfect fucking Keehn.
Always there to lend a helping hand. A kind smile. Whatever he could do. The shirt off his fucking back.
Too caring. Too trusting. Too free with his help. And it most likely led to his downfall.
The last entry on his list was missing two numbers at the end, almost like he'd run out of time while jotting it down, which was interesting. Some digging through the local precinct's files led me to a case open in Khula City, with names I recognized on the victim lines.
Girls we'd personally served justice for when their families found them dead in the Dread River.
Anna Ying. Destiny Michaels. Two girls fresh at college, with families far, far away who couldn't help them. Who disappeared on the same night.
Mistwood and his lackeys pulled them out of the gator-infested waters half-eaten just weeks after they'd gone missing.
Needle and ligature marks all over them.
Some girls didn't make the cut when it came to these trafficking operations. Most times, they drugged them into compliance and then trained them to obey. Sometimes the girls couldn't handle the drugs. Other times, they fought back and were killed for their troubles. And occasionally, they ran off and were dragged back to the trap houses where the scum of the earth held them hostage.
Those girls got it the worst when they finally got culled from the herd. Problem girls weren't resold. They weren't repurposed. A girl who wouldn't listen was a liability. They were tortured, abused, raped, and offed, and sometimes more.
Sometimes, there wasn't anything left for the families to claim or identify.
I called Mistwood one more time, hoping he could make sense of this missing file number and get me a lead I could use.
"What the hell do you want this time, Ghoul?" His voice was curt, sharp, and ragged. Either he was on the job, chasing someone, or running from someone. Or fucking someone, in which case, it'd be my boss, most likely.
They had an on-again, off-again thing going on that she didn't think anyone knew about. But one thing I was good at was uncovering secrets and staying in the shadows while I did it.
"I need you to look into a case for me and get me everything you can on it."
His end of the line went dead, so I called him back. Twice, because the first time, he hit the fuck you button on me.
"Listen here, you jackfuck," I spat when he picked up on the third ring, not even giving him a chance to speak. "If you value your life, you'll do what the fuck I need you to, or you won't be breathing well when I get back to town."
They had a saying in organized religion. What the lord giveth, the lord can taketh away. Well, just call me god, because we gave him his cushy life, and we could damn sure take it back.
He'd best remember who the fuck he was messing with.
"Text me the details, and what you need. I'm kinda busy right now." More panting, followed by a moan.
Definitely fucking St. Clair.
