Page 54 of 4th Silence
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his willingness to stick his neck out. He’s willing to go public. To risk political fallout…for me. “That’s appreciated, but I’m not letting you ruin your political capital. You’ve been positioning yourself for a Senate run for years. I won’t let you throw that away.”
His voice grows rougher. “Some things matter more than politics.”
He’s certainly had a change of heart. “Do they?” I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but maybe it’s reassurance. “That’s...true, but there’s no need to panic.” I’ve got that covered.
“Whatever is between us, this is wrong. Let me do this, Charlie. For once in your stubborn life, let me help you.”
The offer is impulsive. Grand. Genuine. And utterly JJ. He never does anything halfway.
“I can fight my own battles,” I say, softening my tone to take the sting out of the words. “But thank you. Truly. Right now, what I need most is for you to look at a new development in the case.”
There’s a long, awkward pause. His ego just got sideswiped. “And that is?”
“We spoke to the security guard on duty the night Tiffany died. He gave us a copy of the security camera footage—untampered footage. The version you sent me—yes, I know it was you—was altered to delete a scene where Mary left the house, went to the cottage, and ditched the purse before she called nine-one-one. We think the murder weapon may have been concealed inside it.”
Dead silence. The knots in my chest start tangling again.. “I’ll review it. But we keep this off the books for now.”
Better than I’d hoped. “Tonight, my place. Say, eight?”
“Make sure no reporters are hanging around. We don’t want to feed the sharks.”
Chum. That’s what I feel like right now. “I owe you.”
“I expect payment in single malt scotch. The good stuff, not that mid-shelf crap you tried passing off the last time.”
“Deal,” I say, almost smiling despite everything. “See you tonight.”
After we disconnect, I notice the flashing indicator of a waiting call on the landline. I buzz Haley. Her reply makes my stomach clench. It’s Garrett Hastings.
The last person I want to talk to is the man I’ve been accused of having an affair with. But I owe him an explanation. “Garrett,” I say. “Let me lead with, I’m sorry.”
“Charlie.” His voice is strained, little of his usual smooth confidence evident. “My phone’s been ringing non-stop—the director, the Justice Department, every journalist from here to hell and back.” He pauses, exhaling heavily. “Talk to me. What in the name of God just happened?”
Like me, his reputation and career are on the line, not to mention his thirty-some-year marriage. And I’m the grenade that just exploded in the middle of it.
I can’t sit, so I jump to my feet and go to the window. Frost has gathered in the corners, and the view is not impressive, but if I crane my neck, I can see the front sidewalk. Now it’s clean, but my life’s a wreck.
Breathe. I stare at the framed credentials on the wall again, drawing strength from them. “Someone’s trying very hard to discredit me, and they’ve dragged you into it.” I give him a brief rundown on our investigation into Tiffany’s case. He interrupts more than once to ask questions. To express disbelief. I refrain from telling him my theory regarding who’s behind the attack.
Finally, he sighs. “Those with power and fame often believe they’re above the law. You and I know differently. They attack us personally when they’ve got no other means of stopping us. We’re not going to let them destroy your investigation—or your reputation. The work you and Meg are doing matters too much, and you have friends here at the Bureau.” The sound of his door shutting and the squeak of his chair amplify his message. “I’ve got resources, databases, and enough balls to face this head-on. Whatever you need, it’s yours. No strings attached.”
That’s the Garrett, I know—formal, fearless, and full of brass.
I press my fingers against the cool glass of the window, watching someone pass by on the sidewalk, now clear of reporters. Across the street, a few are still hanging out in vans, waiting for me to pop my head back out. Cars pass, and people go about their normal lives. Most have no idea of the chaos unfolding in mine. “I appreciate that, Garrett. More than you know.”
“What’s our next move?” he asks.
Our. The simple word reminds me that I’m not fighting this battle alone. Garrett and JJ are cut from the same cloth—honor, loyalty, fearlessness. Different styles. Same backbone. Both willing to help me. “We keep digging, but I have to be smarter about how I do it.”
“You always did take challenges head-on.”
Not subtle. It was a comment he put on one of my performance reviews. “And I’ve never been great at ignoring a dare.”
“You know who leaked this false accusation to the media, don’t you?”
I don’t tend to make statements I can’t back up with evidence. At least not to people like him. He always wants the facts, just like JJ. But hell, what’s the worst that can happen at this point? “Tiffany’s killer, Mary Hartman.”
He gives a low whistle. “You have proof?”
