Page 53 of White Raven
“Like a man who’s broken. A man who is steadily losing his grip on that ledge and can’t decide if he cares about the fall or not. I’m going to talk to him. Consider me part of his case.” He straightened his spine, and Rhaena bristled. Foley peered over her shoulder and nodded once in his direction.
“Granted, Jenkins,” Cap agreed. “Northwood, go see what you can figure out. Stratford needs to talk to somebody that isn’t a woman…no offense.” Rhaena didn’t take her eyes off him.
“I didn’t realize you cared so much about what happens to Brent Stratford.”
That seemed so out of character for her to say…even if the situation was a shock. They could have this conversation right here in front of everyone, but he’d never been one to share that much of his personal life. Now wasn’t the time or the place. Time for some tough love.
“If I’d been the one to take my mental state out on somebody after having to come to terms with shooting Gretchen…don’t you think Stratford would be the first one ready to defend me?” Rhaena’s throat bobbed, and her shoulders sagged, but he continued, leaning in, and lowering his voice so others couldn’t hear. “If I were you, I’d take some time to really dig deep, Rhaena. Ask yourself if you really know the guy you claim to be in love with at all, if you think I’m that heartless.”
“Brandon…” Her expression showed the sting, and a big part of him felt terrible about it, but at the same time…
“I’ll catch up when you get back.”
He turned himself away and left her at her desk as he hurried down the hall, swiping his card at the door and going into holding. He felt her eyes lingering on his back every step of the way but couldn’t for the life of him feel sorry for what he’d said. For her to assume that men prefer to wallow in their emotions to keep from looking weak spoke volumes about why she hadn’t asked about the way he’d been dealing with having to live the exact moment of impact when he thought that woman was about to shoot the girl he loved…over…and over. And to have been wrong about that assumption and it resulting in the death of a woman who had been blackmailed into helping areally bad man that she’d put down herself…nobody ever cared to ask how he’d been dealing with it. Not even his own girlfriend.
Weak…right. What a cop-out way of sweeping that shit under the rug.
His obvious hurt numbed out as soon as he saw Brent Stratford bent over his thighs with his bloody hands twined together and his disheveled hair hiding his eyes as he stared at the floor. There was blood on his light gray suit. Spatter on top of his shoes. The dude was trembling like he was in a state of shock.
“Stratford?” Brandon started, coiling a hand around one of the metal bars. Brent slowly turned his face toward him. Yep…blood on his face too. “You need a medic?”
“No.” His voice sounded like it had been dragged through gravel. “It isn’t mine.”
“I’ll be back.”
He went to get wet paper towels, and a few dry ones before returning, and having the officer let him in the cell. Brent accepted them and his hands shook as he started wiping them down. Those knuckles were busted open in several places. Stratford hithard. Brandon sat himself on the bench across from him and gave a few minutes to let Brent get himself together.
“This about Wren?” he asked, earning a glare riddled with guilt. “Or is this about your need to just be okay, dude? Cause being okay is gonna take time. A lot…of time.”
Brent wiped his face down and tossed the bloody towels on the floor. “No, this is about shitty people getting what they deserve.”
“What happened?”
He told Brandon everything. Even told him about the conversations with Wren on the phone. How on the car ride up to the precinct, he knew he’d have to resign from the case and that he’d have the first ever stain on his record…and that hecouldn’t find it in himself to care. That he’d rather do jail time than defend someone who didn’t have any remorse for what he did to someone else. That he felt like every time he looked at that widow, he saw Wren Vintorri. Brent Stratford was trying to use his job as an outlet…and it backfired so badly that he only made his struggle ten times worse.
“Did that motherfucker die?” Brent asked, nearly sounding hopeful that he’d taken someone else’s life. Brandon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Brent…I don’t know yet, man. But if he did, no matter what he’s guilty of, you’re better than this. Better than him. Trust me, dude…you don’t want that on your conscience. No matter how much you think you do right now.”
“He deserves it,” Brent hissed through his teeth.
“Maybe he does, but we’re not the ones that decide that. I hate to say this right now, but the way your head is Brent? Thinking like this wouldn’t make you any better than your father. You’ve gotta get some help, brother.”
“I’m nothing like him!”
“You’re right. You’re not. So, make sure you don’t head down that road, and do something about what you’re going through before there’s no turning back.” There was a tense silence between them that one could have sawed in half. He looked like he was about to lose his shit. A loud noise sounded down the hallway, and Brandon tensed, wondering if it was Foley coming to tell them that it was already too late, and that Brent had actually killed the guy. Instead, a dark figure approached the outside of the cell…and smelled like leather and cigarettes. Brent’s entire body drooped, and he met eyes with Athan Kane.
“If you were trying to keep her from heading back to Seattle, you coulda just called. I didn’t wanna get on the fucking plane, anyway.” His tone was light. Unusually playful,andalmostsympathetic. The door buzzed, unlocking and Kane stepped inside, kneeling in front of Brent and placing a firm hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look in his eyes. Brent’s breathing deepened and sped up. “You got him good. But he didn’t die. Way to disappoint me, Stratford,” Kane smirked.
Brent completely broke, snot and spittle flying from his nose and mouth as he collapsed into his own palms. He dragged his injured fingers through both sides of his head and took a gaping breath before loudly sobbing and leaning over his lap, forcing his elbows into his knees. Kane gripped his shoulder, steadying him and glanced over at Brandon.
“Get his doctor up here. The one from the funeral.”
“No!” Brent ground out, heaving a ragged breath. “I don’t wanna talk to her. I don’t want this!”
“Stratford, it’s this, or jail, dude,” Brandon offered.
“Consider it an intervention, Brent,” Kane added. “If you’re not willing to do it for yourself, you need to do it for Wren…and Sarah.”
